


weapons never weep

by McSquishee



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Blood and Injury, Crying, Dead May Parker (Spider-Man), Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Loves Peter Parker, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fluff, Gen, Guilt, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Help, Human Experimentation, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), IM SO SORRY BABE, Implied/Referenced Torture, Irondad, Irondad & Spiderson, Kidnapped Peter Parker, Maybe idk yet - Freeform, Medical Experimentation, Medical Jargon, Medical Procedures, Medical Torture, Medical Trauma, Near Death Experiences, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is a Mess, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Avengers, Protective Tony Stark, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, So much guilt, Surgery, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Torture, Trauma, Unethical Experimentation, Unethical Medicine, Whump, ily may but I guess ur dead now, im sacrificing my grades for this, lots of that as well, not yet but it's coming I swear, oh boy i really put them through it in this one, pls, pls read I spent so much time on this, read or i'll cry, realizing now that I forgot about may, spiderson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29255367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McSquishee/pseuds/McSquishee
Summary: “Let me make something clear, insect. You are a freak of nature that serves no purpose outside of science and war, and you do not have nor deserve the luxury of human rights. I gave you the opportunity to make this easy on yourself, but if you must be difficult, I will have no qualms over forcing you into submission by any means necessary.”The man looked over to him, his expression unwavering and offering no guilt or remorse.“You are naught but a weapon, and I will treat you as such. Don’t forget that.”-or-On a mission gone haywire, Peter is abducted by HYDRA, and they will do whatever it takes to harness his biology for their benefit.
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Avengers Team, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 63
Kudos: 211





	1. and so it begins

**Author's Note:**

> CW- Panic attacks, mentions of non-consensual non-graphic medical procedures

They say hindsight is always 20/20, and in that moment, he felt the full weight of what that truly meant hit him dead in the chest. 

It was so excruciatingly obvious, but no one had realized just how slippery a slope they had been treading until they found themselves in an aching pile at the bottom, panicked and addled with no other choice but to limp their way back home and lick their wounds with one seat on the jet left empty. 

They had skimmed over every red flag that warned them of the chaos they had unknowingly submitted themselves to, drunk on the taste of victory of a battle not yet won. They were heedless and arrogant and so stupidly ignorant that they had been their own downfall, and it was the best of them who suffered because of it. 

It had been a setup. 

A HYDRA base settled on the east coast of Russia, wedged somewhere between Alaska and Japan. It was reportedly small and undermanned, an easy win; until they were forced to split up. They were heading in all different directions in order to cover the most ground and take out as much as they could as fast as possible, but the enemies fell too easily, and the alarms sounded, the exits to every room becoming sheathed in thick layers of metal in less than an instant. 

_“—Mr. Stark? What’s going_ _on?_ _—_ _”_

And Peter was left alone, surrounded with far too many HYDRA agents to fight off on his own, and the team could do nothing but listen and scrape fruitlessly at the walls containing them as the boy struggled, taking more hits than he could throw, every pained whimper and murmur of fear a painful reminder of their fatal mistake. 

_“—There are too many, Mr. Stark! I-I can’t do this on my own,_ _they-they’re everywhere! What do I do, Mr. Stark? I-I don’t know what to do! Mr. Stark?_ _Tony!_ _—_ _”_

He went down with a scream that rang through Tony’s head like a broken record, tormenting him every second of every day that he didn’t have his kid in his arms—and he had no doubt that it would linger in the nightmares of the others on the team as well. 

His comm fizzled out into static after that, and by the time they had broken themselves free, he was long gone- leaving them surrounded by nothing but stale air and corpses that refused to die by any other hands but their own. 

They searched for hours, their efforts dying down with the sun. The kid was nowhere to be found, all power to his suit and the tracker inside had been cut, and there was nothing but endless and infuriating snowy mountains for miles upon miles. There was nothing left they could do for Peter in that wasteland of white, yet taking off in the quinjet felt so betraying and backstabbing that it hurt. 

Peter was gone, but when that tricked-out base grew smaller and smaller as they flew away, Tony couldn’t help but feel like they had left him behind. 

He turned his face to the sky and blinked back heartbroken tears, the stars that he used to gaze upon so fondly now only taunting him with the memories of nights spent curled up on the roof with Peter tucked into his side, smiling brightly as he pointed out constellations and planets with a joy that couldn’t help but bleed into everyone around him. 

Now he just felt empty, and it hurt. It hurt like _hell._

-=÷=- 

“So, what? You’re telling me we have _nothing?”_

Tony’s voice reverberated throughout the otherwise silent room, raw with desperation. He was loud and brash, angry to anyone who didn’t know him any better—those who did could hear the pleading in his words. 

Every face around him was solemn, the aura around them swollen and heavy with guilt. It was no secret that Peter was the baby of the team, the little ray of sunshine that everyone had grown attached to. Losing him had left an aching hollow within them all, but it paled in comparison to the shredded mess that Tony had become. 

The man’s eyes were wide and shaking as he scanned the room, dark circles bruising his undereyes and standing out harshly against his sickly pale skin. His hair and clothes were disheveled, coffee staining the sleeves of his shirt and offering a little more fervour to the shake in his hands. Peter was the glue that held Tony Stark together, and the man was quickly crumbling without him. 

Steve met his eyes, a look of pure sorrow and remorse creasing his face. 

“I’m so sorry, Tony. We’ll get him home. It hasn’t even been 24 hours yet, we’ll find him.” 

The man opened his mouth as if he wanted to reply, his jaw stuttering for a moment before he was closing it with a sigh that sounded closer to a whimper. He dug his hands in his hair and stood up from the table, pacing for a few moments with a haunted mist in his eyes. 

“What if we don’t? Then what?” His voice broke under the pressure. “What if we never find him?” 

For a few seconds there was only fraught silence, until Steve replied with a look of steel and his voice unwavering. 

“That’s simply not an option.” 

–=○O○=–

The voices that broke through the fog in his head were astute and detached, a drastic change from the soft whispers and hair strokes he usually woke up to. 

His consciousness came in waves, pushing and pulling behind his eyes, his ears ringing and head beginning to throb. The first thing he felt was confusion, which quickly settled into cold hard dread in his gut. Something certainly wasn’t right, but it was something his swimming head couldn’t quite yet grasp. 

_“—_ _subject is unresponsive to both visual and auditory_ _stimuli_ _, remained in unconscious state_ _throughout application of pain stimulus—”_

_“_ _—_ _suspected_ _g_ _rade_ _three concussion_ _due to blunt force trauma, extended period of unconsciousness—_ _”_

_“—superficial abrasions and contusions depicting_ _signs of healing_ _at a remarkably rapid pace_ _, let’s get a blood count_ _—"_

The words drifted through one ear and out the other, only aggravating the full ache in his head. His entire being was buzzing with anxiety, screaming for him to back away from the hands and gloved fingers poking and prodding his prone form, but sand filled his limbs, making them fuzzy and heavy and hesitant to move. He could only lazily toss his head to the side, trying and failing to dislodge the people touching him. 

Before he could back away, there was a deft hand thumbing his eye open, flooding his vision with nauseating shapes and swirls of colour before it all gave way to bright white agony. 

_“—proper pupillary constriction in response to light_ _stimulus, reaction indicates probable vision enhancement—”_

He moaned in pain, pressing his head back onto the hard metal surface he was laid out upon. His heart thrummed in his chest and he pulled more fervently on his limbs only to be met with stiff cuffs biting into his wrists, upper arms, thighs and ankles. 

The growing panic within him spiked to an unbearable high. 

His eyes flew open, lightning bolts of pain shooting through them as the light came rushing in. He thrashed with all of his might against the restraints, the scream he unintentionally let out muffled by something firm lodged in his mouth and surrounding the lower portion of his face. 

_“—subject is steadily regaining awareness_ _, resisting against the bonds—”_

_“—should we_ _sedate_ _it?_ _—_ _”_

_“—no,_ _subject 1103 must remain conscious in order to ensure accurate observations_ _—”_

_“—administeri_ _ng first dose of_ _succinylcholine—”_

His thoughts were running through sludge, coming to him slowly and muddy, any rational decision easily overpowered by absolute hysteria. Everything around him was nothing more than splotchy watercolour, leaving him dizzy and overwhelmed and absolutely terrified. 

He could remember nothing apart from the present, and he had no escape from the pain and the light and the unwelcome touch, his struggles only rewarding him with bruises. His body was as jumbled and confused as his head was, every sense and feeling and intuition irreparably scrambled, allowing him no certainty apart from pain. 

He doesn’t recall ever being this scared before, even if every memory was nothing more than a flash of images and a brief feeling of warmth at that point. He found himself overcome with the childish urge to be held, curled up in Tony’s arms with fingers gently gliding though his hair, arms around him and words of comfort soothing any and all of his worries. He ached for the security and love and assurance but all he felt was cold, scared, and hurt. 

It was torture beyond anything he had ever experienced. 

There were more hands poking at him, pushing down against his arm just above the crook of his elbow, latex catching against his already overstimulated skin. His lungs were frozen in his chest, tears he hadn’t realized he’d been shedding gliding out of the side of his eyes and running down his temples. 

A prick and a rush of cold later, the hands were gone and the voices weren’t as loud, he almost let himself relax slightly. 

That is, until he did begin to relax, but not by choice. 

He immediately tried to tense up, an instinctive urge to curl up and protect himself only subdued by the metal he was bound with. His heart stuttered along with his breathing, body trembling with the force of trying to move as a tingling warmth spread over him, a contrastingly cold sweat shining on his skin. 

He could only sob as his body melted against his will, muffled screams of torment escaping him as he thrashed weakly until he could do nothing but lay there, still and exposed and unable to do so much as whimper. His face grew slack. He viewed the blurry world through half-lidded eyes as all of his puppet strings were severed and he was left at the complete mercy of unsought contact and disembodied voices. 

A shiver slithered down his spine but didn’t show on the body that now served as his prison. 

He could sense every movement around him, every slight disturbance in the air and touch assaulting his skin, every burst of adrenaline rushing through him offering no false strength or courage, every footstep and every breath and every heartbeat layering over one another until it was one big roar that sounded as if it billowed out from the gates hell. 

The panic never faltered and it ran through his veins like acid—burning him up from the inside before it was too acute to even register and his overloaded body went blissfully numb. 

The infernal cacophony fizzled out into white noise, his mind collapsing into itself in a feeble attempt to protect itself from whatever agony was sure to come; glued to consciousness without even the meager succor of sleep as respite. 

He was confused and exhausted and so, so alone. 

He wanted to be held and coddled and hugged and god damnit he wanted Tony, no matter how childish the longing may be. 

Now he just felt empty, and it hurt. It hurt like _hell._

_“—test subject 1103 prepped for_ _biopsy, commencing procedure with preliminary incisions_ _—”_

And he could do nothing but breathe and wait. 


	2. hell is the distance between us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW- Graphic description of non-consensual medical procedures, blood and gore, panic and anxiety

Tony sat at the kitchen table with wide and blank eyes, a cup of scalding black coffee cradled between his hands. It was the morning after the mission where everything so horrifyingly wrong, the first morning in as far back as he could remember spent in complete and utter silence despite the presence of the whole team.

The air around him was still and thick, no one bothering to say anything when it would only echo through the room where Peter should be standing. The quiet was palpable and all-encompassing, but it was nothing to stifle that heart wrenching scream tearing through his skull on repeat. 

A few of them were trying to choke down stale toast or soggy fruit, but Tony didn’t even bother to try—he had already thrown up any meager content in his stomach earlier in a fit of panic and was struggling still to force the coffee down his throat. He didn’t feel very much like eating anyway. How could he when Peter was gone? When his kid was somewhere out there hurt and alone and terrified in the hands of one of the most ruthless terrorist groups in history. God only knows what kind of atrocities he was bearing witness to, he could be dying or screaming or crying out to Tony for comfort while the man sat there frozen, worthless and weak with absolutely no idea where or why the boy was taken. 

He had to swallow back bile at the very thought. 

“I remember the first time I met him,” The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them, a careworn and melancholic smile tugging at his face despite the deep-rooted and nauseating grief he felt. Heads turned to look at him as he spoke, wearing similar looks of heartache and sorrow. “The first time he saw me he just froze like a deer in headlights, looking like he’d just seen a ghost,” He chuckled out a sob, eyes trained on the wood grain tabletop but not truly seeing it. “...and God, I just—all I could think about was how tiny and innocent he was, too pure for all the shit he’s been through. I just wanted to take him and protect him from the world and make sure no one ever hurt him again, and I, I can’t—” He sobbed for real then, stifling his cries with a hand plastered against his mouth. He screwed his eyes shut and grit his teeth. “I was supposed to _protect_ _him."_

He thought he knew heartbreak like the back of his hand after everything the world had thrown at him, after everything he’d thrown right back—but there was nothing even slightly comparable to the unfathomable ravaging anguish he felt then. There wasn't anything that could have prepared him for how bad it hurt to lose him. 

Pepper was seated next to him and she leaned into him, laying her head against his shoulder and a hand on his back with her own building tears shining in her eyes. 

The small comfort was enough to send him tumbling over the edge, and he cried more vehemently than he ever had before.

The all-powerful and unbreakable Tony Stark fell hard, the man the world thought to be iron shattering worse than glass. He could do nothing but curl into Pepper as his heart finally clawed it’s way out of his chest, and he who drowned in riches was robbed of everything without losing a dime—because without Peter, he truly did have nothing. 

Tony was broke in every sense of the word, as what was stolen from him was more than priceless. He had enough money to buy anything he could ever want, but those banknotes were no more than simple strips of paper, and no amount of precious stones or bars of gold would ever be enough to replace what he'd lost. No amount of money could bring back his son, and for that, it was all worthless. 

He was a billionaire with endless funds to waste, but he had never before been so poor. 

-=÷=- 

To live was to hurt, and every breath was pain. 

He had done everything he could to shut it all out, but it had done nothing to mask the agony of scalpels violating the deepest layers of his skin, bovies cauterizing spilling blood vessels, retractors pulling open tissue and forceps peeling muscle away from bone. 

He hadn’t been allowed even the paltry relief of screaming; his voice paralyzed with the rest of him. 

At times where it all became too much, he found himself running through the periodic table one by one as a means of distraction. It was familiar and definite, the elements coming easily to mind as he proceeded to list off the atomic masses, valence electrons, electronegativity charges and anything and everything else he could conjure up in order to keep his mind detached from his body. 

He still felt every single prick, every calculated slice and score bringing him to a whole new level of pain he hadn’t even realized existed, and he laid there at their mercy for hours on end. He would have thrown up on multiple occasions if he had the capacity to do so. 

When they had apparently finally harvested everything they needed from him, they carted him down a series of long white hallways until they reached a small room, floor to ceiling walls of metal with a large window of what he could only guess to be some sort of bulletproof glass or reinforced acrylic replacing the entirety of the front wall, the whole thing swinging open like a door. There was a single small cot placed in the corner, lacking any sheets or pillows. The only other item in the cell was a metal toilet attached directly to the wall, and he cringed at the prospect of having to use it. 

They released him from his bindings and gag and tossed him haphazardly through the large see-through door, his limp form leaving him no other option but to flop lifelessly into the cold hard floor, a new wave of hurt crashing over him as his new and extremely sore surgical wounds were jostled with the impact. There remained a pulling weight where the restraint around his neck had been, which unsettled him a bit, but he didn’t ponder it’s presence any longer. 

They closed and locked the cell behind them, leaving him slumped helplessly in a pile of gangly limbs and sutures. 

_It's over. It’s done. Tony will come for you._ _Just wait for him. He’ll be here._

The self-reassurance did very little to calm his raw nerves, but at least he felt like he could finally get a breath in, even if the memories of hands and blood ghosted over his skin. 

He didn’t want to think about it, he wanted to block it out and forget and never relive the absolute mind-numbing agony and terror he felt ever again, but he swallowed thickly and tried his best to assess the damage. 

_Tweezers and knives dug into the_ _6-inch long_ _gaping wound_ _in his thigh, metal instruments carving at tissue and pulling at strings of muscle._

_“—incision made through subcutaneous tissue and_ _fascia, rectus femoris exposed—”_

_“—placing mosquito forceps,_ _begin to separate muscle bundle—”_

_“—extracting muscle specimen—”_

Peter shuddered at the recollection; the memory punctuated with a sharp throb in the aforementioned incision. 

His fingers twitched, and he thought further and tried desperately to keep himself from getting lost in the past. Whatever paralytic he had been injected with seemed to finally be wearing off, and he delved into the small mercy. The fog mucking up his thought process had begun to clear as well, bringing space to allow him more composed and rational ideas, and the blessed ability to practice calming exercises to stave off the panic attack he felt creeping over him. 

With a deep breath, he allowed himself to feel—thinking back to what Clint and Natasha had told him to do if he ever found himself in the hands of the enemy. 

_"Make a list of your injuries and limitations, rule out what you can and can’t do.”_

In addition to the muscle biopsy site, there was a stinging on the top of his other thigh, left behind when they had shaved off a large portion of the top layer of his skin in form of a graft. Scattered over his skin in about 8 seemingly random spots were deep puncture wounds where punch samples were taken, but they easily paled in comparison of the rest of him. Surgical lacerations littered his body, sites where small and relatively unimportant bones were extracted from his joints, nerves scraped and drills cutting into his very skeleton. The tendons and ligaments of his left hand and wrist had been severed or removed completely, leaving it limp and completely useless. He had been disassembled, pieces gouged out of tissue and organs and bone without care like he was just some clump of cells to be studied, as if he didn’t feel pain or fear or love—as if he wasn’t human at all. 

_“_ _—_ _specimen 1103 responding to_ _intravenous drip as expected, no complications_ _—”_

_“—It’s a remarkable creature, isn’t it? Our studies will be revolutionary—”_

_“_ _—take a look at_ _it’s_ _DNA structure, it’s extraordinary—”_

_It. Specimen._ _Creature._

 _Like he’s not even human._

It was unfathomably unnerving, and he ached inside and out, feeling not only hurt and petrified but so terribly violated. Having to lay there paralyzed while pieces of him were hacked away by strange hands with no sedative and no outlet or escape was undoubtedly the worst fear he had ever experienced, and it remained still even while he was alone. 

He did his best to scooch himself against the wall while his limbs were still weighed down by the drug his body was fighting to rid from his system, broken whimpers filling the silence as his agonizingly tender form strained to move. He ended up curled into a ball in the corner, the frigid metal floor sapping the heat straight from his core. 

There wasn’t any part of him that didn’t absolutely scream with searing and burning misery, his entire being enkindled. The flames of hellfire licked over him and there was nowhere he could run. 

By the time they find him he’ll be nothing but smoldering ash. 

_God, what he would give just to see_ _their_ _face_ _s_ _; just to hold_ _someone’s_ _hand._

There wasn’t anything he could do but hurt and wait, nothing but floating pecks of dust to keep him company. He closed his eyes curled up as much as he could to conserve his heat, throat becoming stiff as tears sprang to the surface. 

He wanted to go home. He would never last here, not alone. 

The tears fell, and he let the weight of exhaustion pull him under at last. 

-=÷=- 

It was the sharp and urgent zing of his spider-sense that woke him, leaving him bolt upright in the corner and holding his breath before he even realized his eyes were open. Blinking them into focus, he discovered the source of danger to be a tall, white-clad man entering his cell, flanked by two armored guards who stayed outside and locked the door behind him. 

He was quite obviously of European descent, his frame as wiry as the glasses he wore, pale skin pulled taut over his cheekbones and jaw. His mousey brown hair had been cropped short on the sides, the longer strands on top swept back with gel, looking as neat and tidy as his unblemished skin and ironed white clothing. He had a calulating and incisive stare of striking blue, boring into Peter like he could see right through him. There was no warmth or charisma beyond them, and it put him on immediate alert, a block of ice sitting heavy in his stomach. 

“Subject 1103-00SNHS, Steatoda nobilis and Homo sapien hybrid,” His voice was acute, lilting with a Russian accent that sounded altered in a way that made him inclined to believe the man had lived in several different areas during his life. “As you are believed to be the first of your kind, we are not able to classify your species any further prior to several tests. The name Peter Benjamin Parker no longer applies to you, and you will respond to ‘Subject 1103’ until your species is defined. Understood?” He remained straight postured at the head of the cell, hands clasped behind his back and gaze never faltering. 

Peter sat frozen to the spot, trying desperately to process what had just been said to him while he still reeled with sleep and the instincts within him screaming that the man stood expectantly before him could slit his throat and watch as he died while feeling no remorse. He could only stare, heart thrumming in his chest. 

“Who are you? What do you want with me?” Despite his effort to steel his voice from any trace of fear, it came out small and wobbling. 

The man’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, dragging over the boy’s balled up form with impassive scrutiny that made him want to curl up even further, suddenly feeling very aware and exposed beneath the thin paper gown they had dressed him in. 

“You are not to speak without expressed permission unless it is in response to a question posed to you, but seeing as we have not run through the rules yet, I will not punish you. If it happens again, I will not hesitate—but for now I suppose I will acquiesce and answer your inquiries.” He rolled his shoulders and shifted on his feet, pushing his chest forward slightly. “I am Dr. Yuliy Urvan Morozov, you will address me as either ‘Dr. Morozov’ or ‘sir’—and you, маленький образец, are the key to unimaginable scientific revelation.” 

Peter could only swallow wearily, entire body tense and unmoving with growing horror. In that moment, any hope of rescue had never felt so far away, and he realized with glassy eyes and an achingly tight chest that these people would not be giving him up without a fight. 

He could be anywhere in the world now, but he knew nothing beyond the white walls and metal that kept him prisoner—and he guessed that the team didn’t know any better than he did. 

He might not ever get to see Mr. Stark again and he had never told him that he loved him. 

He would take his goodbyes to the grave—words left unsaid rotting along with his corpse. 

_God, he never got to say goodbye._

“You are the future of HYDRA and the world of science itself, and your genetic make-up presents many possibilities,” The man continued, either not noticing the boy’s dread or simply not paying it any mind. “HYDRA would benefit infinitely if they possessed the capability to isolate and recreate your DNA in order to produce multiples of your species, and their victory would be absolute with an army of soldiers like you fighting their battles; discovering how to achieve this is what I have been tasked with, and I intend to live up to my expectations to the fullest degree. It is in your best interest to cooperate, 1103. Do not make this difficult on yourself.” 

Peter simply stared, stricken with a despondent need to wake up, because this couldn’t be truly happening. He wanted so badly for it all to be a dream. 

He hurt all over and he was lonely and scared and cold and he _can’t wake up._

“Y-you can’t do this, I, I- _You can’t do this!”_ His voice was hoarse and desolate, pleading with every drop of faith he had left. “I’m not just some inanimate _thing_ for you to poke and prod at! I just- I-I’m a human being! What—” 

His words caught in his throat as the collar he hadn’t paid any mind to earlier became abruptly alight with electricity, fire coursing through every inch of his body and crawling under his skin—every muscle drawing up uncomfortably tight. His screams came out as nothing more than thwarted chokes, every injury covering him ignited in a new kind of agony beyond words. 

Those few seconds of torture were eternal, leaving him gasping and trembling incessantly in the aftermath. 

“Let me make something clear, _insect,”_ The doctor started, his position unchanged aside from a small remote that had appeared in his hand. “You are a freak of nature that serves no purpose outside of science and war, and you do not have nor deserve the luxury of human rights.” He turned away, knocking twice on the door to alert the guards stationed outside. “I gave you the opportunity to make this easy on yourself, but if you must be difficult, I will have no qualms over forcing you into submission by any means necessary.” 

Keys jingled in the lock, and Morozov turned to him one last time, his expression unwavering and offering no guilt or remorse. 

“You are naught but a weapon, and I will treat you as such. Don’t forget that.” 

And with that, he was gone—leaving Peter to dwell on the implications of those words and the hell he knew his future inevitably held. 

The tears fell, and this time, he didn’t deny himself the relief they brought. He had a bad feeling that he would have to learn to indulge in such small mercies. 

He breathed, he cried, and he waited. 


	3. and after all the darkness goes, the stars will shine straight through you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW- Graphic descriptions of non-consensual medical procedures, surgery/organs/blood

In the beginning, he had tried to count the days. 

He kept track of his meals—the tasteless grey sludge that he could only hope was oatmeal and one cup of water that they would toss into his cell every so often, once a day judging by how harshly his stomach torqued in protest. Someone would usually show up not long after he managed to force it down, activating his shock collar for much longer than necessary until he could do nothing but shiver with aftershocks before they strapped him to a metal gurney and whisked him away to be flayed open once again—that happened once a day as well, though the length of the sessions varied. 

Any other time he had was spent either trying to keep himself grounded from a panic attack or distracted from the pain, and he slept as often and as much as he was able, but with the all-consuming agony and the nightmares plaguing him, it wasn’t nearly as often as he would like. 

That was pretty much all his life consisted of at that point; eating, sleeping, and hurting. So he began to count, the numbers were always concrete and constant, the only thing amidst the disarray he could control. It was a comforting notion of sorts, a way to keep himself tethered to reality. It was yet another piece of advice from the lesson on kidnapping he’d been given from his favorite pair of super spies that he never thought he’d have to use. 

_“_ _Pay attention to what’s happening around you._ _Figure out the facts, anything_ _you can use to keep you focused and alert_ _while you wait for rescue. Staying aware of the_ _rough_ _time_ _and date is important if at all possible, and it’s something that no one can take away from you.”_

The longing he felt just from the memory of their voices left a tight knot in his throat. They would be so disappointed in what had become of him—the shell he had let himself be reduced to. 

He had tried so hard to keep his sense of time intact just as they had said, but it hurt to realize and focus on just how long he was spending wasting away in that damned cell, every passing second pushing the hope that he would someday see the light of day again further and further out of reach. It wasn’t long before his feeble attempts at staying vigilant proved to be too taxing. 

The world around him had been designed to keep him disoriented, the fluorescent lights overhead never shut off, there was never any natural light or windows, even the air around him was stale and so cold that the pads of his fingers and toes began to throb. It went as far as the guards posted by his cell who seemed to work in sporadic shifts to keep him on his toes and everything hurt so intensely that he probably wouldn’t be able to tell either way. 

His memories of the sky and grass and trees all smeared into one another, leaving only morphed smudges of shape and colour behind. The past was all he had left, the only thing pushing him to live to see the next day in hopes of seeing it all again—and he was beginning to forget. 

_Oh, god—please don’t_ _make_ _me forget. I don’t want to forget them_ _, d_ _on’t_ _let_ _me forget._

It had been what he’s pretty sure was one pitiful week before it all became too blurry to know for certain, and he wasn’t quite sure it even mattered at that point. 

He had no clue how long it had been since then. Minutes and hours had somehow left him, every second feeling both instantaneous and infinite. Time itself kept him prisoner in a never-ending loop of heavy fog and torment. 

He walked blindly through the circuit and cursed every step to hell. 

A shuddering breath escaped him then, his eyes blinking lazily open to the ceaseless slate of white that he could never seem to escape. He hadn’t thought it possible to hate a colour so viciously, let alone one deemed so pure and hallowed—but yet there he was, glaring at the white walls as if they were the ones who had wronged him when they were really only innocent reminders. 

He spared a quick glance around the room only to find that he was alone, only the soft hum and beeping of machinery left in his company. It was very rare for him to be left completely unsupervised, despite the fact that he was restrained to the point of overkill and had hardly enough blood or nutrients to keep himself conscious, let alone stand up and fight. They kept a close eye on him anyway, and however ironic it may be, he found himself feeling a bit uneasy. 

The last thing he recalled was having masked and gowned figures slicing deeply into his torso in a large y-incision, peeling back the skin and muscle from his ribcage to expose squirming and pulsing organs that made his skin crawl just thinking about it. It had hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before, scalding and utterly traumatizing. He thinks he passed out after that, but not before the haunting memory of his very own heart beating had scored itself into the back of his mind. There’s nothing he could ever do that could make him forget that, no matter how hard he may try. 

Now, looking down at his chest and abdomen, he sees it all stitched up alongside the numerous other scars in various stages of severity—without proper food and rest, his healing factor wasn’t doing him many favours. He notes that it’s at least sutured neatly, and he can see the orange stain of surgical iodine remaining on his skin. The pain had decreased considerably as well, blending into the rest of the aches of still healing wounds covering him from head to toe. He had learned to take advantage of even the smallest ministrations. 

A small shiver ran through him, the paralytics coursing through him fading enough for his body to react to the biting air of the operating room, the metal table beneath him still covered in coagulating puddles of blood sticking to his skin that had long since gone cold. It was slick and syrupy beneath him, and the sheer amount had him holding back a gag. 

He let his eyes slide shut as his jaw trembled with a rush of emotion and fear that never seemed to let him rest. He missed the simple luxuries--showers, sleeping in a bed, blankets, clothes that made him feel warm and secure instead of that stupid baby blue smock that may as well have been made of tissue paper. He missed human contact from hands that didn’t live only to hurt him, and he just really fucking wanted Tony to hold him. 

Tears came to his eyes at the heart-wrenching reverie, and he basked in the subtle warmth it sent rising to his cheeks. 

He was brought harshly back to the present with the distinct sound of a door opening followed by light and bouncing footsteps, trembling with the effort it took to keep his head up long enough for him to frantically search for the source of the noise. The metal collar clasped tightly around his neck pulled against the raw and searing electrical burns, the prongs practically embedded within his skin shifting sharply and pulling a raspy whimper from his throat. He couldn’t fight as his head dropped back down to the table with a muted thump and a fresh wave of pain in his head. 

The person continued to approach from somewhere out of sight, humming a small and content tune underneath their breath. It was so...natural, so calm and domestic that it made something within him spark with envy, but part of him couldn’t help but search for comfort in the voice that was almost rejuvenating in contrast to the analytical and examining words he had grown used to hearing lately. 

His danger-sense was nothing but a soft thrum instead of a blaring shriek for the first time in as long as he could remember, and his eyes welled over with tears at the overwhelming relief that washed over him in waves. 

The sound of dress shoes against linoleum grew louder until it came to an abrupt stop somewhere nearby, followed by a steadily growing heartbeat that didn’t belong to him. 

Blinking open his teary eyes, he rested his gaze upon a figure stood across the room, shifting in and out of focus. Heat dribbled over his temples and down to his ears until he recognized the silhouette to be a young and wide-eyed man, a mess of dirty blond hair and tanned skin littered with freckles. He was dressed in a blue dress shirt tucked into a pair of jeans and a white lab coat tossed overtop, a clipboard held tightly in his hands. 

The joyful tune had died in his chest the second he laid eyes on Peter, his expression contorting first into shock, shifting into confusion before settling on something so very troubled and...sad? Peter found himself lost in the man’s face, taking in every little bit of emotion he found. He had never seen any of the scientists studying him showing any kind of humanity, only blind authority and logic—the look of sorrow and regret competing on the blond man’s face made him feel a little bit more human. 

He finally found someone who understood. 

“No way, this can’t be right.” He murmured, eyes darting between Peter and the information held between his hands. “You...you’re just a kid.” 

Peter wanted to sob. 

He didn’t remember the last time someone looked at him like he was more than just an inanimate object, and he had forgotten just how validating it felt to be treated with even the slightest hint of human decency and respect. 

He wanted to scream and cry and beg the man to help him, shout out for the world to hear that he’s human! He’s human, he’s _human_ god damnit and he’s just a _kid_ and everything hurts _so bad_ and he’s tired and confused and he just wants to go home. 

_Please, he’s only human...he just wants to go home._

But he could only lay there, completely still aside from the silent tears flooding down his cheeks. 

“You’re a _kid,”_ The man said a little louder, shaking his head in disbelief with a heavy furrow creasing his brow. “H-how old are you? God...you-you’re a _child.”_ Each time he said it aloud it was like it was the first time he was truly seeing it, face draining to white with conflicting feelings flashing behind his eyes. He looked back up to Peter, taking a few hesitant steps forward before snapping out of his stupor and rushing to the kid’s side. 

He took in the bruising and the hundreds of stitches tracking over his shredded form, a sheen forming over his eyes that looked suspiciously like tears before running a tentatively gentle, gloriously _human_ hand over a small patch of tattered skin on Peter’s side. His face screwed up in anguish as the boy hiccupped a sob, pulling his hand away as if he had been burned 

“You’re just a baby,” He croaked, meeting Peter’s eyes for a few moments as if searching for something. “You- you’re so _little_ _—_ _I-I_ _don’t understand.”_

For a moment, the man was lost. His gaze fogged over with a memory, and from what Peter could tell, I was no longer a random kid laying out on that table, but someone he knew and loved who may be so unlucky as to resemble him. 

“How could they do this...” Seemingly still caught up in the horrors his own mind was showing him, he raised a timid and shaking hand, reaching over to Peter’s head. He couldn’t help but squeeze his eyes shut in preparation for the pain, until _—_ his breath caught in his throat, eyes snapping open when he was met with a shockingly loving touch instead. 

Nimble fingers brushed the matted and greasy curls away from his forehead, sending Peter absolutely reeling. 

_—_ _Fingers trailed through his hair, his arms wrapped around the man’s torso and ear leaned against his heart._ _Soft words floated through the air and danced through his ears, every bit of tension he held within him fading_ _o_ _ut into bliss._

_“_ _You’re okay, Roo. D_ _on’t worry,_ _I won’t let anything happen to you,_ _kiddo._ _I promise.”_ _—_

A screaming sob of excruciating heartache and grief tore it’s way out of his throat, every single inch of his body crying out in agony. Even after weeks of being torn apart at the seams and haphazardly puzzled back together again, he had never experienced pain quite like what he felt then. 

The deep-rooted and debilitating need to see his family tore through him in a way that scalpels never could, sorrow and absolute dolor digging into the most sensitive parts of him until he was unraveled and tangled into a tense knot. 

Nothing could ever hurt as much as he loved him. 

“Oh, malý...how did this happen? I’m _so sorry_.” The man’s voice cracked as he spoke, a tenderness in his words that Peter had nearly forgotten existed. 

“Please, I-I just, I just w-want my dad.” He cried, voice hoarse as he sobbed and gasped for air. “I n-need my dad, I c-can't do this anymore! _I just want my dad._ ” 

He was far beyond the embarrassment of crying and begging. Things as senseless as pride tended to lose their meaning when you’re getting treated like you’re worth less than dirt either way. 

This man finally _believed_ him, finally understood that he was human too— _by god, he’s only human too_. 

“Oh my god, how can this be happening?” It was only then that Peter noticed that the man had tears streaming down his own face as well, an agonized look on his face as he continued to pet the boy’s hair ever so gently with Peter keening and pulling against his restraints in attempts to bury himself in the touch. 

The man sniffed, wiping his eyes with a remorseful smile. “Listen, kiddo,” he started, the smile he was sure was meant to be reassuring only deepening Peter’s frown. “I’m not supposed to be in here, and if they find out I’m in here, you and I’ll get in big trouble, understand?” The boy could only sob loosely. “No, hey, hey- shhh, it’s alright, I’m gonna come back for you, okay? I promise I’ll come back, I won’t let anything happen to you.” 

_—“I_ _won’t let anything happen to you, kiddo. I promise.”—_

Peter grit his teeth and shook his head vigorously from side to side, willing the memory to leave him alone. The man shifted on his feet nervously, looking around the room with red still rimming his eyes. He turned back to Peter, placing both hands on either side of his head, gently brushing tears away with his thumbs. 

“I really am so sorry this happened to you, kid. I swear I didn’t know, I—” He cut himself off with a terse sigh, his mouth thinning into a grim line for a moment before it was replaced with a weak smile. “What’s your name, kid?” 

Peter trembled, sniffing heavily. “P-Peter.” He replied tensely, the name sounding almost foreign on his tongue after being told day after day that he was not worthy of it. 

The man smiled brighter, and it looked almost real this time. 

“Hello, Peter, my name is Alestei. I’m glad to meet you.” 

And for the first time since he arrived in that wasteland, Peter didn’t feel alone. 


	4. the point of no return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW- Swearing and descriptions of grief/depression and lack of self care
> 
> You may feel betrayed in this chapter, that is the plan ;) enjoy ;)))))

15 days, 11 hours, 24 minutes.

Half a month had gone by with nothing, not a single clue or measly snippet of information to go by—15 achingly arduous days in which the all-powerful Tony Stark floundered, the sickening grief and bitterly intense sorrow hitting him in waves. It came unexpectedly and hit harder every time, his emotions in a constant battle between utter bedlam and crippling numbness.

He couldn’t decide which was worse.

Not once did he look away from the too-empty case file, reading and reading and trying to ignore the fact that it was barely a page and a half of useless jargon. He’d left his workshop for the first time only yesterday after Pepper and Rhodey had put many override protocols to use and practically dragged him out of there by his ear, forcing him into the shower and threatening him with more protocols that he himself had created if he didn’t sit down and eat after. He stood stagnant under the stream of water, not bothering to adjust the knobs even when he found himself shivering under the ice-cold rain. It was reviving, anyhow—a jolt to shock his body into some semblance of wakefulness. He pulled his clothes on without drying off first, the fabric catching and adhering to his skin.

He had been fine until that point, letting himself run on the autopilot of muscle memory and allowing his mind to crumple into itself as if to protect him from the overwhelming hurt. Then, as he dug blindly through the laundry for some old sweatpants to tug on, he stumbled upon a sock.

Just a single, mundane, stray sock, except it was ridiculously too small to fit Tony’s feet, and it was dyed bright yellow with white stripes—something he wouldn’t be found dead wearing. 

It was _Peter’s_ sock, and the simple pocket of sunshine and innocence was enough to break through the defensive barriers his brain had so painstakingly built.

Only this kid would be able to find such happiness in something so simple.

_—”Kid, what the heck is on your feet?” Tony eyed the mismatch obnoxious yellow socks Peter wore with an expression stuck somewhere between befuddled and bemused, watching as the boy slipped and slid on the hardwood and into the kitchen with a blinding smile on his face. “There a reason you’ve delved into Big Bird’s wardrobe?”_

_Peter only giggled, and it filled the room with sparks—bouncing off the walls and brightening everything around him like the fourth of July._

_“Oh, come on, Mr. Stark!” He grinned, and Tony swore he had never seen anything so beautiful. “You know you love them, I mean—look at them! They’re so happy!” He hopped up onto a barstool, spinning in dizzying circles with his feet held out for all the world to see. “It’s like I’m wearing the sun on my feet!”_

_Tony smiled back, warmth filling the spaces in his chest he had gotten so used to keeping empty. It took everything in him not to reply and deny what the boy had said, for the sun was indeed shining before him, but it had nothing to do with the socks._

_Tony made an effort to buy more yellow after that.—_

His knees buckled before he could catch himself, the force of him crumpling into a kneel enough to wring out any air remaining in his lungs. He held the heartbreakingly little sock ever so carefully in his hands, cupping around it in a protective ball and curling the rest of his body over it as his entire being became wracked with sobs.

That’s how a rather frazzled Pepper and Rhodey found him, holed away in the corner of the laundry room, crying his heart out while he cradled a yellow sock to his chest.

He didn’t give a crap about that damned sock. It wasn’t the sock he cried for.

He’d gotten them to leave him alone for a few days after that, but not without a few subtle changes to FRIDAY’s code—he just couldn’t handle another fall like that again, he wasn’t so sure he’d be able to get back up next time around. Peter was his first priority, and he had to be home and safe before Tony allowed himself to fall apart.

God, he felt more like a pregnant woman drowning in hormones than one of Earth’s mightiest heroes. How the hell was he supposed to save his kid if he had been bested by a damned piece of brightly-dyed cotton?

He sipped on a black coffee that had long since gone cold, blinking his eyes that were hazy with caffeine overdose yet still weighted down by his body’s attempts to shut down for repairs. Tony was a firm believer in the phrase ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’, and Tony Stark was not yet broken—holding on by the skin of his teeth, yes, but he remained intact by a single thread still, and that was all he needed until he had the luxury to let his mind run wild again.

Not before he finds Peter.

He's on what he thinks is his fourth or fifth day without sleep aside from the 5–10-minute catnaps he finds sneaking up on him whenever his body decides to crash. He's staring yet again at his screens, eyes burning and bloodshot while he searches fruitlessly for any kind of clue hidden in the footage from everyone’s suit cams, except for, well, Peter’s cam. If only he could access it—though he wasn’t so sure he’d be able to stomach what he’d find if he did. 

Everything is the same as it was the past 47 times he’d gone over it, but he went through it with a fine-toothed comb over and over again anyway, praying to stumble upon some obvious clue that he had somehow overlooked, anything that would take him to his kid, bring his sunshine home—his heart breaking a little more with every minute passing by with nothing.

He had never understood before why parents always got upset whenever they couldn’t find their kids, even if only for a few fleeting moments—but he understood all too well now the deep and overpowering _need_ to protect and find him and keep him safe and hold him in his arms while he squeezed him and pressed little kisses to his curls and baby face and promise to him that he would never ever be alone again.

He just wanted to tell him that he loved him, and he won’t ever forgive himself if he never gets the chance. 

“Sir, Captain Rogers is requesting access to the lab.” FRIDAY chimes in, automatically pausing the video feed he’s watching despite his slurred protests. “I strongly suggest letting him in and allowing him to assist you, you are showing many concerning signs of malnourishment and exhaustion.”

The voice of concern is enough to make him groan and scrub his hands over his face, his nerves completely shot.

“You know the drill, FRIDAY. Tell him to fuck off.”

He knows his eyes are sunken and heavy in his skull, he can feel the way his skin is stretched thin over his ribs and cheekbones with only coffee and anything else he manages to keep down as nourishment—but he doesn’t _care,_ and he hates that everyone else does. He simply doesn’t understand why they would try and dote on _him_ when his child is out there somewhere and he _needs_ him, when his boy is hurt and lost and confused and they’re trying to waste time coddling Tony when they could be looking for Peter instead. 

Why won’t they just let him waste away?

What right does he have to this life of comfort and security when he’s the reason that there’s a child out there suffering for his mistakes? Frankly, he doesn’t want it—not without Peter in it.

He’s a selfish bastard, after all.

“He says it’s urgent, sir,” FRIDAY tries again, freezing his screen and keeping it that way no matter how many times he slams his fingers against the buttons. “It is in your best interest to allow him in.”

Tony only growls, a frustrated and guttural sound.

“And I’m telling you _my_ best interest _doesn’t matter,_ ” He yelled, voice laced with venom as he throws a glass paperweight off of his desk in a fit of sudden rage, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction as it shatters against the concrete floor. The feeling's gone as soon as it came, leaving him feeling even emptier than before in it’s absence. He sinks his face into trembling hands, feeling like a petulant child. “Why don’t you get it? What _I_ want doesn’t matter, alright? Not until we find him,” His voice is quieter now, airy with defeat. “Not until we find him.” 

How typical of him to resort to anger whenever faced with anything he didn’t know how to handle. The rage was all he had known for so long, it was the foundation of his childhood and all that he had been taught—it was familiar, and he knew how to deal with it. He’s aware that he’s running away, he knows he's hiding—but he also knows he’s too much of a coward to try and learn to deal with his problems in a healthy way.

God bless Howard Stark, America’s perfect little docile dictator.

He slumps down in his chair, a sick taste in his mouth. It was the most useless he had ever felt in his entire pathetic existence. God, what if they really can’t find him? How will he be able to live on without him?

Swallowing down the emotion creeping up within him, he blinks the tears from his eyes, slapping his hands against his face with a shuddering breath.

“No. No, no, no, no, no.” He muttered to himself, a crazed edge to his voice. “Not now, not yet. Please, not now, please. I can’t do it again.”

He hops up from his chair and ignores the way the world tilts before him, shaking his head so hard he nearly tumbles over in his haste.

When the floor stops spinning, FRIDAY pipes up once more.

“He says it involves Peter, boss.”

The name itself is enough to suck the air from his chest, stilling everything around him so dramatically he’s sure his heart stops halfway through a beat.

He’s nothing but static and dust.

“Fuck, FRI—let him in,” He says, voice trembling. _“Fucking—let him in!”_

The AI doesn’t respond, simply sliding open to door to reveal a steely-eyed Steve Rogers stood in the doorway, looking almost lost for a brief moment before he was striding into the lab with urgency. He made his way over to Tony, a small frown making it’s way onto his face as he scanned the man up and down, taking in his sorry state. It only served to further grind against Tony’s haywire nerves.

“Where’s my kid, Rogers?” He ground out, trying his best not to sway as he locked eyes with Steve, the countertop beside him held in a white-knuckled grip. “FRIDAY said it was about Peter, so unless you have something to tell me that’s actually _useful,_ I suggest you get the hell out of my lab and keep looking until you have something that is.”

Steve didn’t falter despite the harsh tone, in fact, he looked rather sad instead of miffed as most people would be on the receiving end of Tony Stark’s unwarranted wrath. Tony hates how good and righteous the man is sometimes. 

Steve takes a deep, readying breath, shoulders squaring with authority and determination.

“We have a lead.”

-=÷=-

Alestei Signovich does not consider himself to be a cruel man, not as a whole, anyway.

He has a wife who he loves, supporting parents and siblings, as well as a lovely small son. He's not evil, not the monster many people make him out to be. He’s simply a man with a mission, someone who has eyes on the future and strict plans on how to get there, no matter the cost. Morality is rather relative and fickle, and to him, it depends heavily on the circumstances.

No, he doesn’t consider himself to be a cruel man, but that’s not to say he won’t do cruel things if he must. He’s a scientist, after all—sometimes bad things must happen in the name of the greater good.

Does he feel pity towards the arachnid specimen, crying out for it’s family while it sobbed and writhed in pain? Of course, he’s only human. However, he steels himself and he moves on, because what they’re doing to the creature is necessary for the development of humanity and it must be done. HYDRA’s goal is much too important for him to abandon for the sake of one subject’s well-being, no matter how much it screamed and cried.

When his superiors had tasked him with interacting amiably with the arachnid in hopes of finally getting it to submit when it learns that the only friendly face it had turned out to be nothing but a lie, he had readily accepted. He was known for the authenticity of his acting, and it really was better for the thing if it lets go of any hope it has now rather than later—he’s only speeding up the inevitable.

And yes, it was cruel; despicable, even—but it’s a cruel world, fueled by necessary crimes. There is no moving forward without sacrifice.

And as he cried along with the poor thing, had he thought about his own family? Of course. Had the emotion and regret he portrayed felt real for even a second? Sure—but he recognizes it as the way of life, and he sobers up and faces it for what it is.

He’s not a cruel man, he’s simply doing what must be done—and if that makes him a heartless monster, so be it. Whether or not people agree with his actions does nothing to change the facts, and it certainly won’t stop him.

HYDRA is building the path to greatness, and he refuses to be left in the dust.

-=÷=-

In the end, it had taken both Steve and Bucky’s combined strength to wrench him and his suit away from the scene, though he fought and thrashed with all of his mechanical might to break free in a fit of hysteria. 

They’d located and rescued 15 kids ranging in age from 8-18, sickly boys and girls of skin and bone and bruises alike—and Tony couldn’t bring himself to care that he had brought the life back to 15 families missing their kids, because he remained doused in sepulchral shadows with his sun still lost out there somewhere light cannot reach.

15 lives saved and he couldn’t be more disappointed, because Peter hadn’t been one of them. 

_“Let me go, Rogers! He might be in there; we need to keep looking!”_

He knew he wasn’t. He knew every room had been scoured from top to bottom, and then they’d looked again, and again, and again and there had been no trace that Peter Parker had ever stepped foot within those walls.

But he had been _so close._ Accepting that the only promising lead they’d had thus far felt like giving up.

_He just couldn’t stop looking._

_“Tony, hey man, hey– Tones, look–hey! I’m sorry, okay? He’s not here, man.”_

_He didn’t want to believe it._

_“I’m so sorry, Tones, really–I know you love him, but he’s not here, okay? I’m sorry.”_

_He just couldn’t accept another failure._

_“Let’s go home, okay? You’re no good to Peter wasting your time here on a dead end, let’s get you home and in bed, yeah? Come on, man.”_

He had fought with everything left in him, writhing in their grip even as his head swelled and floated away, black creeping into his vision until it was encasing him completely, screaming for his kid with raw desperation that tore out of him like razors.

He almost wished he could have stayed floating in the oblivion forever, the everlasting black where nothing hurt and nothing mattered.

Such a pity it could never last.

He woke up sometime later in his room, a glass of water and a sandwich on the night table next to him. He didn’t touch either.

Instead, he found himself staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, feeling impossibly restless and paralyzed at the same time. He didn’t bother to get out of bed.

He’d done all he could to avoid it, he had hidden in every nook and cranny and ran towards the horizon just hoping it would swallow him up along with the sun, but it was always just out of reach—and there’s no hiding from the dark.

He had been running for too long, and he didn’t recognize where he was when he finally collapsed. There was no turning back now.

And as the cold seeped into his bones and froze in his joints, he felt with a sickening sense of realization that he had hit the point of no return.

16 days, 2 hours, 37 minutes.


	5. you'll never be a god

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW-mentions of alcohol abuse, electrocution, restraints, non-consensual medical procedures and vivid descriptions of grief.
> 
> p.s- this chapter may break you, this is normal and the author's complete intention.
> 
> p.p.s- please comment and kudos it absolutely makes my day :) thank you all so much for the support thus far! It means so much.
> 
> ...enjoy >:)

_“I love you, Mr. Stark!”_

Affection had never been something that came easily to Tony Stark. He knows love and loss like a double-edged knife, soft touches and screaming matches always going hand in hand, any sort of fragility beaten out of him until he was nothing but a blank slate. It had been that way his whole life. 

He’s written off by the media and those who don’t care enough to dig any deeper than the surface as a cold-hearted and arrogant businessman, and perhaps he is—but that’s all he’s ever known. He was never taught how to readily accept love and kindness, and he never had it at all without pain and cruelty following closely after. Even now, every term of endearment or gentle embrace feels like a warning. 

It had always been easier to keep up a hard exterior to protect everything tender and vulnerable within him, and very few people ever bothered to try and break through it. Those who did quickly became dearer to him than the very heart in his chest, and even with them he had trouble sometimes. 

But with Peter, it all came so easily. 

The first time he heard those three words come out of the boy’s mouth, something unfamiliar within him bloomed—a bubbly warmth and radiant light weaving in and out of the cracks and empty spaces that defined him, feeling welcoming and natural and so very, very right. It was rejuvenating, the wounds marring his skin from years and years gone by that still wept and festered finally beginning to heal. 

He loved that boy so intensely he forgot what hating himself felt like. 

It was a snowy evening in early December the first time Peter said it, the lights of the New York skyline glowing bright orange in the haze of white and blue. Every lab day for past three weeks, Peter had played an endless stream of Christmas carols and hymns, smiling anew with each passing song like it was the first time he had ever heard anything like it, singing along and dancing around the workshop with an energy so blinding that it willed away every sour memory that Tony had previously let consume his holiday spirit. 

The kid wore schmaltzy sweaters and reindeer antlers with absurd amounts of jingle bells, all of which would have usually made his nose scrunch up and heart hurt with reminders of everything he never had growing up—but now, it only made him want to get up with him and sing and dance along to the music. 

It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. 

He had never decorated the tower before then. It only ever made the bitter feeling in his chest return with a vengeance, no matter how hard he tried to just enjoy himself with Pepper and Rhodey and the team like he always wanted. He’d tried, of course—it never ended well. After that, they’d put up a single tree on the common floor, and the penthouse was always left bare, even though he knew how much Pepper would have loved to smother it in tacky décor. 

But with Peter around, his heart had suddenly grown three sizes and everything he had bottled up and stored away had shattered and spilled out of him, replaced with something he really wanted to call happiness. 

That year, he threw his grudges to the wind and went on a very merry online shopping rampage, buying everything glittery and sparkly and red and green and white he could find, feeling more than out of his element but too sprightly and enraptured to care. 

He covered every inch of the penthouse in colour and bursts of tinsel and trinkets, though he eventually admitted defeat and called in Pepper to help. She had fervently agreed, hanging up stockings and lace while regarding him with a look of soft contentment and chary pride he only caught in passing glances—he couldn’t quite figure out the source of it. 

It had taken hours, but it had been hours of love and laughter and a warm feeling Tony had never really felt before spreading throughout his chest, it was familial joy to the furthest degree. 

By the time it was all said and done, he was exhausted—but it had been worth every single second to see the look on Peter’s face when he opened the door. 

The boy lit up like he’d been given the world. 

He had practically squealed with glee, bouncing on the heels of his feet and spinning around the room, taking in every detail with such awe and wonder that Tony couldn’t help but watch unfold. He laughed and smiled bright enough to outshine the sun and all the stars combined, the adoration in his eyes following each string of lights in the room until it was finally settled on Tony himself. 

He was immediately wrapped in a hug that nearly swept him off of his feet, said spider-kid squeezing him so tightly that the air was pushed from his chest in a breathy laugh. He’d never felt happiness so vivid. 

It was visceral and surreal. 

_“I love you, Mr. Stark!”_

In that moment, those same three words that had screwed him over time and time again fell over him easily—and for the first time in his life, he really and truly believed them. 

They’d made December 13th something of a tradition after that. Peter would spend the whole day with him and Pepper, pulling out the bins of decorations and lights before they’d set up and deck out the tree, not stopping until well after the sun dipped below the horizon and the rooms became bathed in twinkling light and a warmth that stemmed from more than just the fireplace. 

It was bliss. 

Now, it was December 13th, and the apartment was empty and cold—Blue Christmas by Elvis playing somewhere in the distance like it was written solely to taunt him. 

He let those bittersweet memories simmer and burn through him as he sat lifeless on the living room floor, nursing a bottle of bourbon and an ache in his chest that just wouldn’t seem to fade. 

He didn’t decorate that day, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever have the strength to do it again. 

He should have had told him that he loved him when he had the chance, and the regret sat heavy as a lump in his throat. 

With a shaking hand, he tipped the bottle back—and after all the years he spent desperately longing to feel something, he wished he couldn’t feel anything at all. 

-=*=- 

Peter begins to think his brain has a switch. 

Not one on the outside that he could flick on and off at will, much to his disappointment—but one internally that he has no control over. Feelings are much more complex and unpredictable for him now, and he feels everything with much more intensity than ever before. 

It’s from one extreme to the other, screaming sorrow and dolour burning through him like acid before the switch flips, and he’s gone from sobbing to staring blankly at a wall, suddenly overcome with a heavy emptiness as he’s thrown into utter desolation without warning. It’s as if his body decides it can’t take the surplus of emotion anymore, forcing him into shutdown mode to protect his poor overwhelmed brain from frying in his skull. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s smiled, and he starts to wonder if he even can anymore. 

It’s been 4 meals and 3 torture sessions since he met Alestei, and he hasn’t seen any sign of the man since. They’ll be coming for him soon, to take him back to that wretched lab, to look at slices of his organs and fragments of his bones under microscopes and drain him of blood until he can’t even see straight—but he holds onto the meager and waning bit of hope he has left, praying that Alestei will find him and take him home before Morozov can get his hands on him again. It’s wishful thinking. 

There’s nothing left to him but naïve daydreams worn thin between very real nightmares. 

His prayers are shot down as he hears footsteps padding down the hallway, steadily increasing in volume until Dr. Morozov is stood in front of his cell, his face as void and listless as it was the day he met him. He’s flanked by two guards as always, though they tend to vary day by day—Peter can't really tell who's who anymore, they’re all just your stereotypical tall and meaty henchmen with heads much too large to house their pea-sized brains. 

The doctor holds up that damned remote as he has every single day prior like clockwork, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes as he watches Peter writhe in unfathomable agony that only seems to worsen every time, sparks flying from the collar and shooting up from the floor. In the beginning of it all, he had hoped he would eventually get used to the pain—he doesn’t. 

It never gets any easier, you only learn how to deal with it, how to take it again and again without falling apart—but no, it doesn’t get easier, and it hurts just as bad as it did the first time no matter how often you go through it. 

There's no mercy in hell, and even less rest for the weary.

When the electricity finally fizzles out, the guards file into his cell, taking hold of his wrists and ankles and hoisting him up onto that same frigid metal gurney he’s become unfortunately accustomed to, familiar vibrainium restraints locking into place around his joints. There’s more and more empty space between the cuffs and his skin with each passing day, sickly pale skin stretching tightly over his bones as he helplessly wastes away. He’s become so frail he’s sure that even if they tied him down with nothing but thin lines of thread, he wouldn’t be able to break free—he can hardly keep his own head off his shoulders anymore, but he's too exhausted to feel humiliated.

He doesn’t feel much like Spider-Man anymore. He’s dwindled away to the Peter Parker he was always destined to be, nothing but a feeble and scrawny kid at his core, a godforsaken pathetic wreck that the world just loves to step on, grinding him into the dirt where he belongs. Who he is now is not who he's become, but who he's always been, hidden away underneath all the forged tenacity and valor—he's always been weak, no matter how many times he so foolishly played hero.

And now he’ll disintegrate like dust in the mud, the fate he never wanted, but was always doomed to have. 

His brain goes null as they cart him away, and before he knows it, he’s hooked up to a multitude of machines and intravenous lines, eyes burning under the invasive surgical lamps coating his prone form with white light. He’s once again surrounded by faceless surgeons decked out in full gear, and he shivers at the very sight of them, turning his gaze away—until he's pausing, noticing another presence beside him- a new addition to the team of doctors, an extra heartbeat he swears he recognizes. 

The height and build of the man spark something in his memory, but with the blue cap, mask, and gown swallowing his identity, Peter’s left clueless. 

He doesn't have time to question it further or even feel uneasy before the new guy steps forward, hands travelling slowly up to his face, taking hold of the protective eyewear and mask and tugging them off, bringing a painfully familiar face into view.

His heart stutters in his chest. 

No.

No, no— _no. No!_

Standing before him is his last hope for freedom falling apart and burning to ashes right in front of his eyes. 

Alestei Signovich, the man who had cried with him, the man who pet his hair and wiped away his tears, speaking to him with soft words and promises he now knew to be no more than acrid lies that he’d fallen for so blindly—it’s a searing knife stabbed deep into bone and cartilage and slicing clean through delicate bundles of nerves, tearing in and out of his skin as it's plunged into him again and again and again with the same blade that had promised to cut his bindings. It’s a betrayal so vile that it's nauseating.

He’s wearing a devilish smile, and though it may have been the slightest bit rueful, it doesn’t stop him from digging into Peter with scalpels he’d sworn to save him from. 

He’d shown this man the most sore and tender parts of himself only for him to whisper sweet nothings in his ear, the hand that had once been his only comfort wrapped around his neck. Peter had been so starved of gentle touch and affection to the point that he'd been blind to the obvious truth, so desperate for kindness he couldn’t see the gun pressed to his temple. 

Peter thought he knew cruelty inside and out—only then does he realize it knows no bounds. 

The pain he feels is limitless. 

“Hello, malý,” The man greets wryly, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Remember me?” 

The once warm and reassuring voice had iced over, sharp with professionalism and authority just like all the others—he squeezes his eyes shut, a full ache rising in his throat. 

_Please wake up. Please, please, let me wake up._

_Please tell me this is just a dream, let me wake up in Mr. Starks arms in my room with_ _glow in the dark_ _stars_ _o_ _n the ceiling and avengers sheets and_ _the sweet smell of vanilla cologne. Let me wake up with the sca_ _rs o_ _n_ _my skin and ache in my bones nothing but ghosts of a nightmare, let me be sat up in bed wearing those stupid_ _hot pink_ _hello kitty pajamas_ _I swore I’d never wear but can’t seem to part with—_ _please, please let me go home._

But he can’t wake up, he knows he’ll never wake up in that room again, never again will he stay up all night building lightsaber prototypes with Mr. Stark, he’ll never have another flour fight with Bucky and Sam as they wait for the cookies they'd made together to bake, he’ll never hear another word of Natasha’s soft Russian or Wanda's gentle voice singing Sokovian lullabies, he’ll never have another science debate with Bruce or training session with Steve, he’ll never play another stupid prank with Clint or laugh about Tony’s college days with Rhodey or play chess with Vision even though he knows he’ll lose—it’s all gone, and no matter how hard he reaches, or hopes or cries or screams; he’ll never have that back again, and the pain that realization brings is worse than anything they could ever inflict upon him. 

The memories he used to look back on so fondly now only serve as painful reminders of what he’s lost, and he’s unsure which is worse—the pain of what’s happened or the ache for what never will. 

He misses them so dearly he can feel the strings of his heart pulling and straining with grief, and seeing the man he had so ingenuously trusted turn his back on him so mercilessly seemed to be the final blow—those weak threads of tissue snapping beyond repair in an instant. 

There’s nothing left for him to live for. There’s nothing left for them to take away. Everything he’d spent years building up is crashing down around him, every wound he’d ever gotten flaring open with renewed fervor—and for a split second it’s incomprehensible agony, but then it’s gone, leaving a hollow nothingness in it’s wake.

He can feel hot tears streaking down his face, but his emotions have at last shorted out completely, and he feels nothing but immeasurable emptiness swallowing him whole. He doesn’t fight it, and he doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to.

“Aw, chlapče...none of that now,” A hand gloved in latex wipes the tears from his cheeks with a false gentleness, and he turns his head away from it as far as the restraints will allow, his teeth grinding against each other so hard he’s sure they’ll crumble under the pressure. “Can’t you see this is for the greater good? Your sacrifice will change the world forever; you should be proud of all that you have lost.” 

He doesn’t give them the satisfaction of a reply, but he supposes the silence speaks for itself. 

“This is all just part of a prospect you are too dull to understand. You’ve been misled to wholeheartedly believe in a spectrum of right and wrong in which you so willfully follow, but tell me—who defines morality?” The words were slick and dripping with condescension, his voice drawling on as if he were explaining his actions to a child. “It’s all relative, dear, and sometimes you must push past the comfort and equilibrium you wade in before you drown in it.” Alestei sighs, taking the boy’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “One day you will understand. All that I am doing to you is not a choice, but a necessity.” 

Peter only closes his eyes, shivering as the man leans in close enough that he can feel his hot breath dancing across the shell of his ear. 

“Heil HYDRA.” 

And for the first time in all the weeks he’s been there, when they begin to slice into his skin, he doesn’t struggle. 


	6. and the devils and angels danced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW- Brief references to alcoholism, drug abuse, and panic attacks/PTSD

Tony found himself stuck in the never-ending loop of ‘what if?’ more often than he cared to admit. He’d walked himself through so many circles in his own head that he was sure there’d be footprints worn into the bottom of his skull, and it had been that way his whole life—a constant, nagging anxiety that was always lingering no matter how hard he tried to shake it off.

Of course, it settled at times, but it never vanished completely—every time he thinks he’s seen the last of it, it always comes back with renewed stringency. And thanks to how much time he spent in the public eye, though he loathed it entirely, he learned at a very young age how to keep a lid on it; how to hide in plain sight.

Glasses on, shoulders back, smile like you mean it and never look them in the eye. Tell them what they want to hear and get out as soon as possible, make an excuse, stay out of sight, and never let them see your fear. He was the picture-perfect son of a businessman in every way except reality, and he was completely content with everyone viewing him as that, even if it meant being seen as cold-hearted and vain. 

He followed the paved path and steered himself to keep between the lines of his comfort zone, shutting his mouth and sucking it up no matter how much it hurt.

Then, after years of trauma and torment pushed down and forgotten, Afghanistan happened, and everything he had brushed off and bottled away built up and shattered the façade—he had finally hit his breaking point.

He’d started to have panic attacks, depressive episodes followed by equally taxing periods of mania, all while drunk or high out of his mind in cheap attempts to just forget and pretend nothing had even happened. The face he kept on for the world to see was slipping too fast for him to catch. He was walking a dangerous line, teetering on the edge of death, whether or not it be by his own hands. Pepper and Rhodey had finally managed to slap some sense into him and pull him out from the depths, and he lived—but he didn’t come back unscathed.

He was scarred beyond repair inside and out, but alive, nonetheless- and at that point, it had been just enough for him to keep going.

But life just kept up with the lashes.

Betrayed and left for dead by the man he had trusted with his life and company, poisoned by the same device that kept him alive, the team he loved like family falling apart at the seams before the man he would have liked to call a best friend abandoning him countries away from home with the very suit he had built to protect him holding him prisoner in the snow, blood still dripping down his face. The list went on and on, but even after everything that threatened to throw him back into old habits and unhealthy coping mechanisms, he had Peter as a lifeline.

And then he lost him.

He had promised himself he would never let that boy go through the same hell he had endured so many times before, and he failed miserably. The world screamed in his ear that his hands were capable of nothing but destruction and war and he had yelled right back because no matter how dark he may have been, Peter had always found a way to bring out the light, and that had been good enough for him. 

This boy, this radiant piece of heaven on Earth who flooded his thoughts with wide awake dreams and chased away the demons who plagued him with the stars in his eyes had found solace in a broken man like him, and that had been so much more than enough.

And when he had tried to explain that he was no more than dirt, Peter had smiled and planted flowers. He sent sunlight through all his shattered windows and taught him that there’s a certain kind of beauty in what’s broken.

He’d wasted years trying to fix himself, and he never realized he could have been happy all along.

But the sun that gave him life had been locked away, and in it’s absence the flowers all wilted, and he was left with nothing but thorny remains and mere shards of glass that poked and cut at his skin.

Peter would have been better off if they had never met. He would be home and safe and warm and Tony had taken that promise of safety and security away from him the second he walked into his apartment that day.

He tried time and time again to be better than his past, but it always crept back over him and drowned out and pushed away anything good he’d managed to create. It was like chasing something he could never outrun.

He shook his head with a blink that dragged on with fatigue, idly spinning the pen he held between his fingers and rubbing his temple with his free hand. He was nursing a hangover that never seemed to abate completely, though he supposed that was his own damn fault. Never quite letting the buzz fade, always drinking but never truly drunk—enough to keep the pain from swallowing him hole, but not so much as to steal his focus from the task at hand.

It didn’t matter how bad he hurt; nothing would keep him from searching.

But every lead ran dry, and every time he thought he had something significant the world stomped on his hopes and ground it into the pavement with the heel of it’s boot. He was so, so tired of it all, and he just wanted his boy in his arms. It had been such a long and arduous fight that he felt as if he were trying to catch the clouds—an ever-changing sky to search with a goal too far out of reach, grabbing at clues only for them to billow out of his grasp, seeping through his fingers like nothing more than vapor.

He was running in circles with no way out, and it was getting really hard to keep hoping when he had nothing to keep it alight. 

He sat back in his chair with a sigh that sounded closer to a sob, jaw trembling with a sudden burst of emotion he couldn’t quite pinpoint. He was angry and sad and frustrated and fucking exhausted all at the same time and there wasn’t anything that could fill the aching gap Peter left behind, simply no way to be happy in his absence. 

His hands balled into fists, nails he hadn’t trimmed in weeks digging crescents into his palms as he shot up from his chair so harshly it rolled halfway across the workshop, drowning in restless energy that lit his whole body on fire and turned the floor beneath his feet into hot coals. All of the uselessness he felt broiling within him came bubbling to the surface, sending him pacing around the room in feeble attempts to rid himself of it.

He needed to get out.

He couldn’t stand to be in his lab anymore, not when everything around him began to remind him of all of his failure instead of the progress he had so optimistically hoped he’d be making. 

So he followed his anxious feet, even as they led him out of the room that had once served as his sanctuary and into places full of uncertainty and people who would force him to take care of himself no matter how much he protested that he didn’t deserve the luxury. The workshop was too quiet without Peter in it, and the silence left in his wake was deafening.

He didn’t know where he was headed nor did he care, desperate to scratch the burning itch that left him feeling so heartbreakingly homesick in his own house. 

Along the hallways he went, tracking the cracks in the floorboards.

His eyes only strayed from his feet when he began to hear voices coming from a nearby doorway, and he could feel the tension in the room pulling him under before he’d even entered it. He looked up to find the whole team huddled around the kitchen table, all buzzing in their places with a contagious sort of unease.

Those sitting bounced their knee or chewed at their nails while the ones who stood tapped their fingers or cracked their knuckles, and there were even one or two of them pacing small circles into the tile—an overwrought atmosphere spreading to the furthest corners of the room and threatening the air supply.

The quiet murmuring stopped the second he entered the room, heads all snapping up to meet his gaze as all movement and sound cut off in it’s tracks. Tony fought the urge to back away from their stares, planting his feet in place and willing his hands not to shake by crossing them over his chest.

Something didn’t feel right, and it took everything in him to keep his mind from immediately darting to the worst-case scenario.

“Tony,” Steve was the first to break the silence, his surprise at seeing him willingly out and about evident in his voice. “It’s good to see you.”

What happened next stopped Tony’s heart in his chest.

Steve broke out into a wide smile, genuine and bright and appearing so utterly foreign after he’d spent so long seeing nothing but sullen faces and empty grey walls. He’d almost forgotten what it looked like, and he could hardly imagine how it felt. He hated how quickly happiness had been twisted in his head, something that had once come to him so easily turned into something unfamiliar—almost nostalgic.

The drastic change in the man’s demeanor made something long forgotten spark within him, something he wanted so badly to call hope but didn’t the guts to. He just couldn’t let himself believe there’d be good news only for it to be ripped away so brutally yet again—he just didn’t have the strength anymore.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and held his breath to smother the wildfire rising in his chest.

“Honey,” Pepper squeaked, a small and wistful smile on her face with unshed tears shining in her eyes. “I missed you, will you please come sit down?” She patted the empty seat next to her, trying and failing to discreetly dab at her eyes with the sleeves of her sweater.

_“Sir, you might need to sit down for this.”_

_“I’m so sorry, would you please take a seat?”_

_“Listen, I think you should sit down.”_

The words were foreboding, the calm before the storm. He had heard them many times before and he’s sure he’ll hear them many times again, but he never imagined he’d be hearing them about Peter.

_He’s gone. He’s dead. You were too late._

He could only pray to whatever deity out there, anyone and anything who would listen that his worries not be confirmed.

_Please don’t tell me my son is gone. Not before me._

He shook himself out of his stupor and ignored the stabbing panic he felt cutting through his chest, willing his trembling legs to cooperate as his heart fluttered against his ribcage like a fly trapped in a bottle. With anxiety burning over his entire being, he took a hesitant seat in the chair, jaw clenched shut with dread pooling heavy in his stomach.

_Please tell me you found my baby. Please let me bring him home._

His back is rod straight, every joint in his body aching with exhaustion and apprehension. In that moment, he forgets how to breathe.

“Alright,” Steve begins, and the lightness in his voice does nothing to ease Tony’s worry. “As you know, we’ve been in close contact with SHIELD since Peter’s abduction, and they’ve just come to us with some really promising evidence.” An almost pained expression appears on the man’s face, as if he were struggling between a smile and frown.

Tony’s heart went still.

“They have an undercover agent infiltrating a HYDRA base located in Iceland, and in their most recent check in they reported coming upon a teenage boy in one of the most secure parts of the facility.” Steve looked up at him, tears shining in his eyes. “The description matches, right down to the birthmark on his shoulder.” He let out a wet laugh, light with incredulity. “We found him, Tony. We found Peter.”

He reeled.

Everything around him grew white around the edges, static filling up his senses as a million different feelings came crashing down over him. One hand shot instinctively out beside him and grabbed onto Pepper’s forearm for dear life, while she only gave a teary smile and moved his hand so it rested between both of her own, squeezing reassuringly. 

He raised a tremulous hand to cover his mouth, stifling the way his breathing shuddered.

It was relief in it’s purest form, the undying pressure and fear of the unknown he’d grown so accustomed to as of late releasing so abruptly it left his emotions momentarily dull. Every bit of fight he’d held onto so tightly, every sliver of spite and determination that kept him going even when he should have collapsed long ago came tumbling out of him, leaving him weak and faltering—only still sitting upright due to the few pairs of strong hands that shot out to catch him as he nearly leaned out of his seat.

His mind was blank and nothing mattered except the mantra of _he’s alive_ running rampant through his head.

“Easy, Tones—I know, man, I know. Let’s go lay down, yeah?”

He barely registered the soft voices around him, nor the bodies beside him holding him upright and leading him out of the room, and he didn’t realize he was crying until he felt hot tears tracking down his face and falling listlessly to the floor.

_He’s alive. Oh my god, he’s alive. Peter’s alive._

It wrenched his heart in his chest, cutting through him and hurting him in a way that felt divine.

And after weeks of endless searching through untouchable clouds of grey, they began to part—bringing the glorious and all-encompassing light of the sun peeking through.

He basked in the hallowing warmth running over his entire being, filling up the cracks in his soul and reigniting a fire within him he hadn’t known he’d been missing.

It was euphoria.

He’d finally followed the sun to tomorrow after what felt like years of endless nights, and as it crept up over the horizon and chased away the dark, he let the light shine right through him.

He's bringing his baby home.


	7. how to walk through fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW- Mentions of gun violence, non-consensual medical procedures, anxiety and panic attacks, blood and injury.
> 
> ohhOOhoHOHOHOhohoHOHOhoHhohoOOHohOOO this is a doozy--bring your snacks and drinks people.  
> So sorry for the later than usual upload, school has been kicking me in the ass lately--but guess who's pulling 90's??? BOOYAH KASHA  
> Thanks so much for all the support so far, it means much more than you know. I do a little happy dance every time I receive a comment.  
> Please enjoy the new chapter!  
> -Kaylee  
> p.s- comfort is coming soon I promise the angst is only for maximum comfort purposes  
> BAKE HIM AWAY, TOYS!

The tension in the room around him was thick enough to cut, murderous animosity hanging heavy in the silence no one dared to break. 

Tony sat steadfast in his seat on the quinjet, his entire body stagnant aside from the blood surging through his veins. It had been a few restless hours since the breakthrough in Peter’s case, and he had spent the whole of it in a haze—idly listening to the team hashing out a game plan with only one goal in his mind; shoot first, ask questions later. 

Everyone was clad head-to-toe in gear and weaponry, ready and willing to use any force necessary regardless of moral constraint. They carried the vigor and virtue equal to that of an entire army, a deep-set determination forged in intimate chaos pushing them forward through the fire—devoid of concern for their own safety. 

And though they were worn and weary, they couldn’t have been more ready. 

Tony was hands down the worst out of all of them, eyes bloodshot and glazed against pale skin and dark circles bruised into his undereyes. He was completely burnt out, hollowed by fear and bereavement eroding him away and rubbing his nerves raw, and although he hadn’t slept in days, he was not by any means lethargic. 

He had the full force of a parent’s relentless rage backing him, and a father’s love for his child easily overpowered the exhaustion. Adrenaline only fed the scourging need for revenge and tore through his restraint, leaving him wound up and ready to positively decimate anything standing between him and his son with a sort of unbridled brutality he didn’t even realize he was capable of. 

He fought with hell as the only outcome, and he’d bring the devils to their knees. 

He withheld no mercy for the monsters who dared lay a single vile finger on his kid, the ones who twisted the light in his eyes into haunting shadows and contorted his heart into hurt—they made Peter’s life a nightmare, and Tony was going to be theirs. 

He’ll raze his way home, leaving nothing but ash and bloodshed behind him—and he’d do it without a single shred of remorse. Tony had once felt his bones strain with the weight of regret over deaths he hadn’t been able to prevent, and he carried the world on his shoulders still—but he’d been pushed long past repentance. As far as he was concerned, those bastards had given up the right to mercy the second they laid their hands on his kid. How could it be wrong if it’s he’s only bringing to them what they so verily deserved? There’s no room for remorse in war, and no time for hesitation when your child’s life hangs in the balance. 

They hadn’t flinched as they’d taken Tony’s very life and happiness away from him, so why should he feel sorry for anything he dealt out in retaliation? 

He let out a rigid breath through his nose, chewing the inside of his cheek and anxiously curling and uncurling his toes inside the metal boots of the suit. Rain pounded against the roof and windows in a steady roar, and if he strained his ears, he could make out the whistling howls of the wind as the jet cut through the air at full speed. 

But the ride to their destination still felt everlasting, to the point where Tony had FRIDAY run a countdown to their ETA in the corner of his HUD just to prove to himself that time was indeed passing, staring it down until it burned holes through his eyes and cursing every lingering second to hell. They were set to arrive in only 8 minutes and 35 seconds, but the short stretch of time seemed all the more tedious when considering they were already 22 days late. 

He’d never forgive himself for the unchartered hell Peter had undoubtedly faced every second he was away—a kind of torment Tony so selfishly hoped he’d never know completely. It Had he been crying out for Tony? Had he laid awake at night waiting for him to burst through the door? 

What had they done to him during those few wretched weeks? God, had they hurt him? 

He wanted so badly to cling to the naïve hope that they’d find Peter unscathed, mouthing off to his captors with the unmatched snark only he was capable of, grinning at Tony and making teasing comments about how long it’d taken to find him and how he must be losing his touch in his old age—and Tony would cry, holding him and pressing kisses to the top of his precious head, swearing to never let him out of his sight again. Then Peter would cry with him because of course he’d missed the crowd of familiar faces and family, and seeing the wet tracks on Tony’s face would undoubtedly pull tears from his own eyes because that’s just how Peter was. 

He wore his heart on his sleeve, untainted by the horrors of the world even after life had put him through the wringer again and again, feeling the pain of everyone around him with empathetic sympathy whether or not the person was worthy of his boundless compassion. He lived and laughed and loved with such unyielding ardour no matter the circumstance, and the only reason he’d given had been _“No_ _one_ _should have to cry alone, Mr. Stark.”_

And through it all, he still found the strength to be happy, and how dare the world try and take that away from him—how dare this fickle life keep taking and taking and taking from such an undeserving being, this boy who’d done no wrong and still tried so valiantly to pay off the debts of everyone around him. He just couldn’t bear to see the fire in that boy’s eyes burnt out so soon, the potential for something so much more and already so great gone before he could even realize it was there, all because of one misstep they could have so easily avoided. 

He knew that finding his kid as bright and healthy as the day he’d left was nothing more than a pipe dream, and he knew that he’d realistically never be the same again, that no matter what condition they found him, those 22 days he’d been gone would leave a scar that Tony wouldn’t be able to fix. 

Their contact in SHIELD gave no insight into Peter’s condition beyond primary identifying features like rough height, weight, and general appearance, and although he’d like to believe it was because there was nothing of immediate concern to report, he had a sinking feeling that they’d kept the true severity of the situation from the team in a cruel attempt at mercy. He had no idea what Peter had been submitted to behind closed doors, but he knew HYDRA—and that alone was enough to assure Tony that he’ll have to come to terms with the fact that the damage might be grave. 

The onslaught of horrific and terrifying possibilities washed over him in waves, scenes of Peter battered and bloodied stirring up from the more sick and morbid depths of his mind. Flashes of muddled water, steel barrels pressed against his temple and digging into his lower back, sun pouring from the sky and scalding his skin as he left trails of red in the sand—and all of a sudden, he’s not the one held at gunpoint, he’s not the one with metal and magnets replacing soft and vital flesh, and the blood soaking into the desert floor is no longer his own. 

Peter’s taken his place of suffering in his stead, and Tony’s the one behind the gun. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, a full ache ebbing out from his chest and shooting down the length of his arm, his teeth clenched beneath tight lips as he swallowed down his growing panic. 

He retreated to the empty corners of himself and watched the timer tick away in a steady beat the rest of the way there, his heartrate quickly growing as the seconds continued to descend. And before he knew it, his stomach was sinking as the jet settled into the ground, no one saying a word as they collected themselves onto their feet and not needing to. 

Tony found himself blindly following, heart thrumming in his chest as he watched the boarding ramp lower to the ground below, making way to the rain and letting dense mist billow into the cabin. 

It was finally happening. 

“Everyone stick to the plan,” Steve reminded them, the pledge for destruction sharp in his voice. “In and out—we find Peter and get him the hell out of there, no hesitation, no matter what. Use whatever force necessary. Understood?” 

The look in his eyes was knife-edged and bitter, steely in a way that was almost unsettling to behold. Steve Rogers was a notoriously moral and passionate man, but his reserve had iced over and snapped—and Tony almost pitied the man who would face the wrath of the driven and merciless leader. Almost. 

They were all quick to agree to the instructions, the rampant choler lacing them all together matched at an all-time high. 

No hesitation, no matter what. 

“Keep structural damage to a minimum and get to Peter as quickly as possible, no holding back.” They all nodded, readying their weapons and squaring their shoulders, prepared to fight within an inch of their lives—and if they never get to see another rising day, then they’ve met serenity. 

Steve breathed a deep and anchoring breath, jaw squared and shield held to attention. “Let’s bring him home.” 

-=+=- 

They’d never seen them coming. 

Arrows cut through the air in perfect trajectory, gunfire peppering holes in drywall and tiles, bringing along a spattering of blood with each bullet. The sharp slice of a certain signature vibranium disc came in close succession, hitting it’s target dead-on with each throw and latching back onto the magnetic base for only the briefest of moments before it’s swinging out again. Behind it all, soft but piercing red tendrils extended out from nimble fingers, bending the area around them to their will. 

Guards and scientists fell like flies, bodies littering the floors around them in a mess of gangling limbs and pools of ruby red. Black uniforms grew damp and dark while crisp white linen became dyed with quickly spreading stains. 

Tony darted down hallway after hallway, wrenching open doors on either side of him in a crazed search. The team picked up his slack without question, silently watching his back and clearing a path for him through the crowds of panicked and fumbling HYDRA agents who hadn’t anticipated their arrival enough to be able to defend themselves—and anyone his teammates happened to miss was quickly taken care of with a swift and skillfully placed repulsor blast. 

He wasn’t the stone-cold killer so many believed him to be, but for Peter, he’d learn to live with the blood on his hands. 

His breath came in gasping pants as his heart fluttered against his sternum, his movements growing increasingly desperate with each room found empty. He began to forgo the use of doorknobs, instead opting to force them in with a quick snap of energy from his palms, panic crawling under his skin. 

He turned sharply into an adjacent corridor, met with a pair of towering double doors at the end of the short hall. They were quite visibly enforced, white iron frames and small windows infused with wire mesh, a silver plaque pasted above the doorway labelled in a language he didn’t recognize. Linked between the two handles lay a clunky padlock, shackle thicker than any other he’s seen before. 

No one goes to such lengths to keep people out of an empty room, which bares the ultimate question—what are they protecting? _Who_ are they protecting? 

He grasped the lock between two gauntleted hands, pulling it open with little effort and tossing it away as if it had burned him, pulling in a shaking breath. 

His hand trembled even with the support of the suit as he wrapped his fingers around the handle, swallowing the tightness in his throat and praying to any deity that would listen for mercy. 

And if mindless prayer proved true, if the silent hopes he nursed like faltering flame would bring his wishes to light, he’d fall to his knees and he’d grovel—spewing worship to fickle circumstance they’d so naively named God. 

He’d do anything if it meant he’d find his boy behind those doors. 

The weight in his chest sat heavy, and he let it out in one sharp breath, throwing caution to the wind and bursting into the room. 

What he found nearly sent him to his knees. 

It brought both his wildest dreams and worst nightmares to life, seeing Peter for the first time in nearly a month. It was quickly obvious that the time away had not been as kind to him as Tony had hoped. 

He was dragged to his feet, barely able to stand on shaking pencil-thin legs that shook with the weight of his emaciated form. They’d dressed him in only a light blue pair of papery boxers, putting every jutting rib on display and bringing him to shiver in the cold air of what appeared to be an operating room. It was a sickly sight to see, but what really stood out were the scars. 

The healing remnants of surgical wounds littered his body from head to toe, hardly an inch of him left unmarred. Some were noticeably more recent than others, lines of black stitching still marching across his pale and fragile skin, whereas others were steadily on the mend, delicate pink tissue fading into white as his healing factor fought to knit the flesh together. They were everywhere, crossing over one another and drawing ridges into muscle and sinew—marks of agony left permanently imbedded in his baby’s flesh, a constant reminder of what Tony had been unable to protect him from. 

God, they’d _operated_ on him—and knowing HYDRA, there had likely been no concern for his pain or wellbeing beyond what was in their best interests. 

It took everything in him not to lose himself. 

Peter’s heartbreakingly skinny arm was wrenched over the shoulders of a slight man in a lab coat standing next to him, who was the only thing keeping the boy upright. The man had startled as Tony forced his way into the room, stopping dead in his tracks and spinning to look him dead in the eye, gaze unhinged and lacking something essential he couldn’t quite name. 

And in held in a shaking, white-knuckled grip, a .45 caliber pistol—pressed against Peter’s side. 

“Stark,” He greeted with bared teeth, chest heaving. “I appreciate the sentiment of your visit, but I’m afraid your insight is not needed with my current research.” A sly grin began to spread across his face. “But I suppose you are of different opinions, yes?” 

Tony had his palm outstretched to the room since the second he walked through the door, and he kept it trained on the scientist, elbow locked with full intentions of shooting to kill the second he was given the chance. 

“Drop the gun and let him go,” He ground out, thankful for the metallic distortion of the suit hiding the waver in his voice. 

The man only laughed, a deranged and unsettling sound—whole body wracked with tremors. He pressed the nose of the gun further into Peter’s side, and the boy didn’t react beyond a small whimper at the added pressure against what appeared to be a newer and sorer scar, eyes glazed over and locked onto the floor tiles. 

It was an empty look that Tony had never seen from him before, and he refused to admit that it scared the hell out of him. He held his arm out strong, fighting against every urge welling up within him to pull the boy into his arms despite what may be dire consequences. 

“My name is Dr. Yuliy Urvan Morozov, and I am not naïve enough so as to believe that I will make it out of this with any sort of glory,” He admitted, finger trembling in it’s place around the trigger. “My work could have been revolutionary; it would have changed our very sense of life as we know it! They all called me insane for what I have done but revered what I had planned—preaching ethics and morals and wanting the results I promised, but too cowardly to take the initiative needed to get there.” He looked back up to Tony, his eyes holding something so demented and fractured that it bled into the air around them. “I will not let them take credit for the work I sacrificed everything for,” He snapped his mouth shut and grit his teeth, jaw rolling. “and if I must go, my studies will die along with my name.” His finger tightened around the trigger. 

Tony’s heart stopped entirely, stepping forward on instinct. 

“Wait, stop—” 

A gunshot rang out, layered with the shrill blast of a repulsor; two bodies fell to the floor. 


	8. the ratio of love and loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW- Mentions of gun violence, blood and gore, references to panic and anxiety attacks, minor character death
> 
> OH BOYOHBOYOHBOYOHBOYOHBOYOHBOY  
> THIS ONE IS A DOOZY MY GUYS I WOULD LIKE TO APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE FOR THE PAIN THIS MAY BRING YOU AND REMIND YOU ALL THAT THIS IS NOT A MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH STORY NO MATTER HOW GRIM THIS MAY SEEM SO FAR – I PROMISE IT ONLY GOES UP FROM HERE  
> anywho...I am so sorry  
> Here's nearly 4000 words of my pain and suffering, enjoy!

Tony hadn’t missed.

His repulsor blast hit the target dead on, sending Morozov across room with so much force that he smacked into the opposite wall, leaving a sizeable dent in the drywall between the beams. The surge of energy was centered in the middle of his forehead at full capacity, sending blood and cerebrospinal fluid dripping from his nose and eye sockets. He’d never even known what hit him, gone immediately. 

It was a death far more merciful than what he deserved, but Tony hadn’t missed.

He’d finally been able to get his hands on the man he’d spent every second of the past 22 days dreaming of tearing into, and the bastard would never lay another finger on his kid ever again, but in that moment the knowledge offered no comfort. And he couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe because _Tony hadn’t missed—_ but neither had Morozov.

Peter went down like a puppet with severed strings, crumpling lifelessly to the ground without so much as a whimper, making no move to even catch himself as he fell—and for several horrifying moments after, he remained deathly still, no movement aside from the deep red blood overtaking the once white tile.

Tony hadn’t thought it possible to feel everything so vividly while remaining so mind-numbingly empty at the same time, but as his eyes traced over the hollowed dips between each rib on that pale motionless body, begging to see him take even the smallest of breaths, he realized that emptiness had a certain kind of immeasurable weight that sits heavier than words can explain.

Time slowed, and it seemed like even the heart in his chest forgot quite how to beat.

And then Peter breathed, and although shaking and weak, it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard—the tension he felt knitted into the cords of his spine reaching a breaking point, pressure building in his ears and behind his temples with an incessant ringing.

But the relief he felt was short-lived, because it was then that Peter’s bony form began to squirm, feeble hands fumbling to press clutch the gunshot wound in his side with breathy whimpers shaking out of his chest. 

The realization nearly knocked him off of his feet—Peter had been _shot,_ he was scared and hurting and that pile of scar tissue and bone bleeding out in front of his eyes was _his kid._

He might have screamed had he not been so addled with denial.

The world around him blurred and he moved blindly forward, nothing registering aside from the little body curled up before him and the overwhelming amount of red that seemed to come at him from all angles, drowning out all other colour. 

Nothing felt real.

At times when life dragged on, he’d always relied on the promise of tomorrow to pull him forward—counting on second chances and the pause of night to soothe the abrasive ticking of time. He put things off and didn’t live with everything he had, because at the end of the day he could flip the hourglass and start again—He never expected the new beginnings to run out, but there he was, watching the sands of time spill out around his feet.

He never imagined he’d live longer than the very thing that gave him life, never thought he’d have to watch the sun dip below the horizon without being certain of morning.

And suddenly the lavender-soaked sky he once considered beautiful was swallowing him whole, drowning him in sublime orange and clips of dark that used to be refreshing. 

He had been entranced with the illusion of forever, and never considered he’d outlive the sun.

His knees finally gave out underneath him, the joints of the suit colliding hard with the ceramic flooring. Peter lay in a fragile heap before him, the close proximity between them allowing Tony to see every sickly detail of his decrepit state. White hot panic ran rampant through his body, pounding through his head and heart so vehemently that his vision began to tunnel out around the edges.

And then his eyes locked onto Peter’s, sunken in and weeping but still so beautiful—big and brown and calculating and so very real.

Tony floundered, watching dark blood pour from the puncture just beside Peter’s belly button, swallowing thickly before planting his gauntleted hand over the leaking wound—pushing down with as much force as he dared even when Peter yelped in agony, crying out in pain that _Tony_ was causing him. It took every inch of his willpower to keep his elbow locked, the fact that he was saving his life hardly consoling because no matter how necessary it may have been, his kid was writhing and sobbing underneath his hands when all he wanted to do was take the pain away.

The guilt sat in his stomach like a rock, so fervent he could taste it on the back of his tongue.

He let the nanotech encasing his head creep away, needing to see the rise and fall of the boy’s bony chest with his own eyes.

“Pete? Oh, _Peter.”_ Every inch of him shook, fighting everything within him begging him to ease up against the boy’s abdomen, every cry of pain coming from his poor hurting child cutting through him like lashes under his skin. After spending so long aching to comfort and console him, wrap him up and keep him safe and never let anyone touch his boy again and the first time he gets to feel the steady thrum of his child’s heartbeat in nearly a month is from the throbbing pulse of a bullet wound.

Tony let his burning eyes fall shut, chest tight with more conflicting emotion than he knew what to do with, every cell of his body writhing.

“Oh my god, Peter—I’m so sorry, Bambi. I’m so, so sorry.” He cupped the side of the face he spent 3 weeks longing to see, taking in every scar and scuff on the pale cheeks wiped clean of their childish innocence. His cheekbones were sharp and sinking where they used to be full, orbital bones circling once sharp brown eyes now caught in a haze. A shaky breath fell from him as he let his forehead fall gently against Peter’s, hot tears running down his face in burning trails as he pressed a long and gentle kiss against the boy’s temple, relishing the fluttering heartbeat he found there. 

When he pulled away, he met Peter’s eyes, glazed over with pain and confusion Tony wished so badly he could take away. Those big brown eyes locked onto his, a million foggy emotions flickering through them. He looked at Tony as if he could see right through him, like he was nothing but a trick of the light his tired and tortured mind interpreted as real. His brow furrowed weakly, lips pressing together with a desperate whine.

Tony shushed him shakily, petting the boys hair away from his face. 

“It’s okay, Roo. I’m here. You’re okay.” Peter only sobbed, and Tony leaned over him close enough that his lips ghosted over his cheek, letting undecipherable words of comfort spill out of his mouth. Peter’s breath came in shallow pants, feathering over the side of Tony’s face and through his hair. “I know, buddy. I know it hurts, and I-" His breath hitched, a heavy ache pulling down his throat and into his chest. “I’m gonna make it better soon, yeah? I’m going to take you home, a-and Helen and Bruce will fix you right up, and we’ll watch Star Wars, and I’ll pretend to hate it like I always do, but you wanna know something, kid? I love it, because it makes you so happy, and that’s all I could ever ask for.” He paused, jaw trembling as more tears welled up in his eyes. “Please don’t be scared. We’re going home soon, okay? I promise.” 

His promise was fractured with doubt, and it tasted like poison in his teeth. 

The idea that Peter might not make it home washed over him like acid, and he forced the thought away with as much indignance and denial he could muster—Tony would bring him home be it the last thing he ever do because damn it all he’s lost _so much_ and the world keeps taking and taking and breaking him down to nothing but dust and air with Peter as his only tether.

He couldn’t lose him.

And that’s his boy lying there, his whole world tied up into a bundle of tawny curls and a smile that brings something vital to bloom within him. Love just wasn’t the word he was looking for, there wasn’t anything he could say to sum up just how much Peter meant to him.

Tony had felt the unrelenting pain and solitude of torture, he’d been beaten down and left for dead and betrayed by those he’d have died for time and time again, and the thought of losing his son hurt worse than anything he could have ever imagined.

Peter looked up at him with precious wide eyes, not once looking away even as tears fell in thick rivulets down his temples, chest heaving with hiccups and whimpers. His lip trembled, and he looked so afraid, so scared and so unbearably _tiny_ and innocent it made him want to scream.

How could this have happened? Fuck everything, fuck life and fuck death and if there was a God out there somewhere fuck him most of all—any all-powerful being that could let such tragedy unfold upon this child who’d brought nothing but goodness and light to the Earth was no damn God to him. But if he ever took the chance to yell out to the heavens, asking ‘how did you let this happen?’—he’d only receive an echo, and that alone would be worse than any other answer.

He was Tony’s everything, his pride and joy and all the spaces in between and he could do nothing but watch as his very life seeped between his fingers. 

He’d never felt so goddamn useless, so angry and tired and so god damn _sad_ _._

Peter’s eyes burned into him, something familiar sliding into place amidst the flurry of fear before a heartbreakingly little and frail hand was reaching out to him almost hesitantly, his stick-thin arm shaking with the strain. Tony’s heart fell into his stomach, immediately taking hold of the cold hand, cradling it gently and pulling it towards him to pepper the boy’s knuckles with chaste kisses. 

_How did I let this happen?_

“Tony?” 

The voice was almost too quiet to be heard, but he’d been listening, damn near breaking down because Peter had never once before called him by his name and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with himself if that was the last thing he’d ever hear him say.

He’d never felt love that hurt so bad.

“The one and only,” He said softly, voice barely a whisper as he forced a weak smile onto his face, sniffing and letting out a laugh that sounded much closer to a sob. “Hey, kiddo—we finally on a first name basis?” 

Peter only blinked, face smoothing out into something almost relaxed, resigned in a way that showed just how terrifyingly fast he was fading. He let out a small and hitching sigh, wide eyes drooping with recognition.

“Dad,” He said simply, and he sounded so sure that it tore Tony to shreds. 

A broken sob tore out of his throat, and he squeezed Peter’s hand carefully, pressing the cold and nimble fingers against his cheek. 

_“_ Yeah, angel _._ My Peter _, my boy,”_ The air in his chest was heavy and thick, every breath too shallow. “Stay with me, bambino mio—Don't you dare close those eyes, you hear me?”

Peter's eyes roamed the area around him with heavy-lids, something terribly forlorn and lost in his expression. He was visibly too far gone to understand, looking so puzzled and troubled by the fear and desperation in Tony’s eyes. It was just like him—excruciatingly selfless as always, worrying about everyone else but himself even while in agony. It was frustratingly endearing.

“Look at me, Roo,” His voice was guttural and pleading, throat swollen and strained. “ _No,_ c’mon now, buddy. Please, _please_ look at me.”

The blood never once stopped flowing, the red beneath him fanning out into an increasingly daunting pool. 

He was falling faster than Tony could fly.

Peter blinked at him with those big brown eyes he’d grown to love more than anything, looking so, so tired, as if all the exhaustion and pain plaguing him could be solved with a simple good night’s sleep—as if he’d wake up in the morning in his bed with the horrors of the past few weeks nothing more than cruel products of a nightmare.

He would have given anything for it to be true.

Pain shot through his chest, the heavy ache of grief festering in the hollows of his jaw and every creaking joint.

This flawless and faultless boy looked at him like he’d given him the world, undying trust and love evident in his features even after the universe had done everything in its power to extinguish the light in his eyes.

He loved with everything he had, and it was both his worst vulnerability and his greatest strength. His ability to remain passionate in every situation was something Tony had always admired, almost envious of how easily and innocently he cared for everyone around him.

Tony sometimes wished to be naïve and pure in such a way.

But the relentless emotion didn’t come without a price, and he was learning firsthand the damage loving someone so intensely can wreak, finally understanding how love and loss worked according to one another in a sadistic ratio.

With love comes the upheaval of control, the welcoming and acceptance of inevitable grief. To cherish another is a risk with unmatched reward in exchange for liability; in which the more you care for someone, the more it hurts to see them go. 

And in that moment, Tony had never felt pain so unbearable.

He was still so young, still had so much further to go—He was supposed to graduate, accepting that diploma with honours because he was smarter than anyone else his age by tenfold and yet twice as kind at that, and Tony would cheer from the audience, wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap to make sure everyone had eyes on his amazing son who had worked so hard to get where he was.

And then he’d finally ask that MJ girl who made him turn beet red whenever her name was mentioned out on a date, and Tony would tie his tie and pat him on the shoulders, turning away at the last moment to hide the shine in his eyes because he’s so damn proud he can feel it pouring over the edges.

And maybe it won't work out, he’ll have his heart broken for the first time and he and Tony will curl up next to each other on the couch with ice cream and blankets and he’ll hold him until it doesn’t hurt anymore—or maybe they’ll get married, and he’ll watch his baby light up as the love of his life walks down that aisle and everyone will witness Tony Stark cry, because he won’t be hiding his joy then, even if it means a sappy photo of his teary face being plastered all over the internet.

He wants everyone to see his son in all his glory, and there wasn’t any reputation strong enough to make him want to hide how proud he was.

But there Peter was, skinny and weak and bleeding out on the floor of a HYDRA base miles away from the home Tony had promised he'd see again.

He was supposed to grow up, and Tony was supposed to be there every step of the way, always one step behind to steady every stumble and get him back onto his feet.

But he was falling now, and Tony wasn’t so sure he’d be able to pick him back up again.

_Not yet. Please, not yet—not before me._

_Don’t make me live without him._

“FRIDAY,” He croaked, cracking voice a breath away from a scream. “FRIDAY, what do I do? Th-Theres too much blood, _oh god, what do I do?”_

He was doubled over with sobs, near hysterics as he stifled cries into Peter’s limp and cold hand, pleading words sitting on the tip of his tongue and occasionally slipping out amidst his keening.

“You need to act now, boss,” FRIDAY spoke up, voice level even as Tony was reduced to crumbling pieces. “There is only one remaining option, and although it is not ideal, it is the only way left for you to stop the bleeding.” She paused for half a moment, almost hesitant. “You need to cauterize the wound. I have already set the right palm repulsor to the appropriate power and temperature necessary, I only need your verbal confirmation to proceed.” 

_Oh, God._

It took everything in him not to give in to the dry heaves he felt crawling up his ribcage, waves of nausea washing over him in crippling waves.

He took in the sheer size of the puddle of red blooming beneath his knees and the sickly colour to Peter’s once bright cheeks, looking back into Peter’s eyes where he could see the life steadily draining away from the boy who used to be so lively that it beamed out of him like sunlight. 

Peter walked the edge of a very dangerous line, and Tony was left with the decision of whether to take a step toward him—the move necessary to pull him back that could very well be the same thing sending him tumbling over the edge.

There really was no other choice—he’d finally hit bedrock.

It made him sick to his stomach.

He gingerly adjusted his hand over Peter’s side, nearly gagging as the metal slick with blood slipped against the boy’s skin. Peter whimpered with the movement, and Tony could only mutter soothing sounds to him, leaning in with a shuddering breath to kiss him hard on the forehead, trying desperately to carve the feeling of his son’s hand in his into the back of his skull.

It was agony in it’s purest form, but he’d never let himself forget how cold and lifeless those willowy fingers felt against his palm.

“Do it, FRIDAY.”

Three ordinarily mundane words, and in his whole 48 years of life, it was the hardest thing he’d ever had to say.

“Commencing cauterization in 10,”

Tony breathed, shaky and foreboding.

“Petey, my little bug,” He quaked, setting Peter’s hand down ever so gently before brushing the matted hair away from his face, watching with a pained smile as the boy’s face went serene the way it always did whenever someone played with his hair. “I love you so, so much, you understand? So much,” He sniffed, smiling down at the boy who’d become the light in his life he never deserved. “God, I should have told you so much more than I did, and I’m so sorry. I know I haven’t been the best, but you’ve been so good to me, buddy. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” He sobbed through clenched teeth, unable to keep it back. “And I love you, I love you more than anything and you’ve made me so, so proud. Please never forget that.” He continued to run his hand over the boy’s head and relished in the feeling of soft strands trailing through his fingers, the quickly fading warmth radiating against his palm. Peter hardly stirred, remaining blissfully unaware of the pain Tony was about to put him through.

He pressed another long kiss to Peter’s temple and prayed with everything in him that it wouldn’t be the last.

“You’ll always be my baby, even though you’re a teenager and I’ve only ever seen you as a baby in photos.” He smiled with tears running down his face, rueful and wistful. “No matter what happens, you’re always going to be my boy, and I’ll never, ever stop loving you.” He took in a shaky breath, heart tearing apart in his chest. “I’m sorry, and _God—Thank you.”_

He wouldn't let himself believe it was goodbye, because Peter was much too strong to die, and Tony much too stubborn to let him.

The familiar hum of energy flowed through his hand, and with one quick flash of light, it was over.

And then Peter _screamed,_ and it was as relieving as it was absolutely heart-wrenching. A glorious sign of life and an agonizing reminder of the unimaginable pain he'd put him through.

It was the kind of sound he knew immediately would haunt him for the rest of his waking days—and he'd learn to live with it if it meant keeping Peter alive.

He didn’t think twice before tapping the arc reactor on his chest, sending the suit encasing him back into the housing unit.

Everything hurt, and yet he felt nothing at all. 

The only thing clear to him was how much he needed to hold his kid.

With more care than he thought possible, he scooped Peter into his arms, paying no mind to the blood soaking into his clothes as he sat down on the floor and pulled the much too delicate boy into his lap, handling him gently as if he’d shatter with any sudden movement. He tucked his hand into the mess of hair, gently pushing the boy’s head to rest against his shoulder, the other hand drawing barely-there circles over the mess of scars covering his back, feeling every knob of his spine beneath his knuckles.

He shushed him quietly as he let out shrieking sobs of agony into the crook of Tony’s neck, wishing with every part of himself that he could take his place.

Instead, he did the only thing he could think to do—the lilting words of a lullaby his mother used to sing whenever he was sick or in pain as a child coming easily to mind.

Tony Stark was no singer, but for Peter, he’d croon and hum until his lungs gave out if it meant offering him even the slightest bit of solace.

He held his baby close, and nothing else around him mattered.

“You are my sunshine,”

Every word was choked out, voice hoarse and desolate.

“My only sunshine. You make me happy, when skies are grey,”

Bit by bit, Peter began to settle, and Tony couldn’t decide whether or not that was a good sign.

“You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you,”

He cried with every bit of energy left in him, heart wrenching down into his stomach and back up again, rocking gently back and forth with Peter held securely in his arms. He placed the pads of his fingers against the pulse point on the boy’s neck, praying silently in the pauses between every weak heartbeat.

_“Please don’t take my sunshine away.”_

Tony Stark was Iron Man, an Avenger, a member of Earth’s greatest defenders—he was dubbed a hero by the public and villain by the media and destined to change the world, whether it be for better or worse.

He had always hoped it would end up being the former.

But around him, the world burned.


	9. the price of resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW- Non-consensual drug use, descriptions of wounds and gore, suggestions of trauma, dissociation and brief mentions of panic/anxiety
> 
> SO: this is not my fav chapter, but the next one will bring lots of comfort, I promise!! I am as excited as you are!!!  
> P.s. sorry for the late update, again, school is demonic and must be burned at the stake :)  
> Hope you enjoy! Please kudos and comment or recommend to others! It means so so so much and I squeal every time I see it in my notifications! :DDD  
> Happy whumping!

Beyond that, reality became pretty distant—a series of blurry events strung together on a line he followed but didn’t quite understand. He ran on the autopilot of muscle memory and instinct, whispering sweet nothings into Peter’s ear as he sobbed and whined into his shoulder, feeling like the scum of the Earth because _he did that_. He hurt this sweet, sweet boy, and those tears running down his cheeks were Tony’s fault. 

He had promised to never hurt him, swore to the world that he would never stoop to the level of his father before him—and yet here he was, the apple sitting in the roots against the base of the tree, his boy’s skin was marred and blistered with burns and seared scabbing of a messy entrance wound, screaming from pain he was much too young and innocent to be enduring. 

It was nauseating, the way he ricocheted between certainties and doubt; the varying self-reassurances and reprimands, letting himself believe he had only done what he had to with the nagging reminder that he’d done it all out of his own selfish desire. 

For whose sake was Peter suffering for? His own, or for Tony’s? Did he crawl back from death’s doorstep because he wasn’t ready to die, or because Tony wasn’t ready to live without him? He couldn’t help but wonder, in saving Peter’s life, had he simultaneously condemned him to a life of fear and pain? 

The question of where it had all gone wrong lay caustic and unanswered in the back of his mind, festering further with every pained noise escaping Peter hit him like a knife to the gut, each shapeless sound of agony so potent that it could be felt seeping into the air he breathed. 

What could he have done differently? 

The world around him dissolved at the seams and became slowly drained of all meaning, every wheezing breath dancing across his skin like fire, each tear dropping onto his shirt branding his skin like hot wax, etching unseen scars into his flesh doomed to never truly heal. 

He pressed his cheek to the crown of Peter’s head, feeling every pained hiccup echo through his chest. 

Time began to unravel at the bindings, every second that his child hurt stretched beyond recognition as if disobeying the laws of nature just to see him _squirm._

His heart and soul smudged like ink on a wet page, ruined and easily torn—the stain of heartache settling into his bones worse than wine into white carpet. 

Long and draining years were somehow passing in mere minutes, leaving with all the aches of a decade by the time the others found them, curled into each other in a hysterical pile of grief and gangly limbs. 

His eyes never strayed from Peter, taking in every cut, bruise, lesion and sore with a sour taste clinging to his teeth. 

He looked at him like he’d disappear if he turned away, even when people were reaching toward them and he was snapping at anyone who got too close—even when Rhodey was crouching in front of them, a look so terribly sad in his eyes as he helped him to his feet with Peter still tucked protectively against his chest. They all kept their distance after that, hanging back by several feet as if one step closer would bring him to fall apart entirely. 

Tony had never been one to give in to delicate treatment, always wanting to prove he wasn’t damaged goods, wasn’t broken in the way everyone tried to tell him he was. After his parents’ death, after Afghanistan, after Siberia—he had thrown himself into the limelight, brushing off concern and soft words with gaudy gestures and spite. But his nerves had long since grown thin and brittle, and he truly didn’t feel very sturdy. 

Holding the weight of the façade had taken its toll, and he was sick of hiding the cracks creeping up from underneath the collars of his designer suits, tired of encasing himself in iron and pretending it was enough to hold his splintering pieces together. 

He’s fallen from the heights of cloud nine enough times to finally accept that he’d never be whole again, and with the mutilated remains of his child crying into his chest, he felt the pain magnified in every glinting shard of his being. 

Peter was sickeningly light in his arms, so small and hurt and fragile—and yet his body was the heaviest thing he’d ever had to carry. He held onto not only what Peter had left but everything he was missing—and the weight of what he’d lost was a much greater burden than anything that remained. 

It was bitterly unjust, the way life continued to shroud the skies of those who deserved the sun the most—but somehow, Peter still found the strength to see life amidst the stars. It takes an abundance of grace to be kind in such cruel circumstances, and Peter took it all in stride while still reaching out a hand to guide the others lost. 

Tony hadn’t thought it possible to be so furiously proud—and when they made it home, he’d be sure that Peter would never forget it. 

His eyes stayed locked on the head of muddled curls lolling against his shoulder, Rhodey’s hand a steady anchor between his shoulder blades steering him around the bodies that littered the floor. SHIELD agents had already arrived to take care of the mess they’d made, handcuffing the wrists of those fortunate enough to have been merely knocked unconscious and zipping up black bags around those who had not been so lucky. 

He let out a breath and put one shaky foot in front of the other, not sparing the greying corpses so much as a second glance. 

Maybe at one point he would have cared, would have felt sympathetic and perhaps even a bit guilty for the lives lost, wondering if they had families of their own or imagining the reaction of their loved ones when they never come home. Maybe he would have ultimately been sorry for the ruthlessness of his actions, but all those maybes were burned to nothing the second they laid hands on his son. 

And in that moment, even as he stepped over puddles of blood and nearly tripped over lifeless appendages, he felt almost pleased—and he didn’t have the bandwidth to feel bad about it. 

Steve stood ever-strong and unyielding at the head of their pack, leading the shell-shocked team out of that wretched building and down the pathway to freedom. The rest of them huddled in a protective circle around Tony and Peter, faces deceivingly blank as they marched down each chilling corridor that never quite differed from the last. Every now and then, Tony would see the light would catch in their eyes or on streaks trailing down their faces, but still no one dared to say a word—the whole building gone deadly silent in a way that felt almost fitting. 

Tony felt lost, absent from his body as they approached the same two doors that they’d entered through what felt like so long ago, leaving with both everything they’d wanted and everything they’d feared. The aura surrounding them was haunting, conflicting emotions swirling in a heavy fog that couldn’t quite settle on something that felt right. 

Steve slumped against the door with a terse sigh, pushing it open with his shoulder and breathing in a wave of the outside air, the rest of them following suite. 

Tony stumble out into freedom with reckless abandon and hesitant relief, subconsciously holding onto Peter a bit tighter. The storm hadn’t let up in the time they’d spent inside, the sky dark and looming with heavy clouds, a thick and biting wind bringing sharp raindrops against Tony’s face. 

The wind smelled of petrichor and sodden pine, clouds hanging low in the sky and nearly brushing against the tips of rolling hills, leaving dewy grass in its wake. 

It was almost refreshing for a moment, the cold air bringing back some clarity within his stupor—that is until he remembered the prone bundle in his arms, who very quickly decided that he _did not_ like the abrasiveness of the outdoors. For 22 days he knew nothing but white walls and air tainted with antiseptic, and the shock of winter weather left him gasping, scrambling to wrap his arms tighter around Tony’s neck as chills ran across his paper-thin skin, pulling himself impossibly close and stifling whimpers into his shoulder. 

The man had to swallow down brewing guilt, dread welling within him at how timid the once brazen boy had become, how the sharp and intelligent eyes he’d come to know now swam with lack of understanding, watching the rain fall with bewildered apprehension—it was as if he’d never seen anything like it before. 

_God, kid. What did they do to you?_

Tony shook away the growing panic, wrapping his arms further around him while running a hand up and down his back gently in haste attempts to warm him, cursing himself for not thinking to bring him a blanket or coat. His senses were undoubtedly going haywire even before they’d left the base, and any meager bit of body fat he may have had before had wasted away, leaving nothing to protect him from the cold but the skin on his bones. 

It was the middle of December and Peter had always run a little colder than the average person, how could he have forgotten something so mundane? 

He was getting sick of being sl scatterbrained, all other thoughts pushed aside with the constant aching need to _protect_.

God, the things this kid does to him.

Water quickly soaked Peter’s hair, dripping down into his eyes as he blinked in almost indignant surprise. Tony may have thought it adorable if it weren’t for the terrifying implications. 

Could it be that he was already too far gone? Was there nothing but a ghost of the boy he loved left behind? 

He could feel his jaw tremble and eyes burn the longer he let his mind wander. 

Wanda was quick to react—her face warmly melancholic as she shrugged off her red leather coat and draped it carefully over Peter’s already shivering frame, tucking it in around the edges with care. Tony smiled his thanks, but it felt forced and unwelcome on his face. 

He remembers boarding the jet; Bruce’s wide eyes the second he lays eyes on them, the way his hands shook minutely as he readied the materials of an IV line. He remembers laying Peter oh so gently down on the cot they’d set up for him, heart nearly tearing itself out of his chest as weak and tiny hands reached out for him as he pulled away, holding onto the collar of his shirt in a wobbly grip. He didn’t hesitate to take them in his own, gently rubbing his thumbs over the white knuckles. 

He can still hear the way Peter cried as Bruce dug around in the crook of his elbow with a needle, the boy so dehydrated that finding a viable vein was nearly impossible—the way Bruce’s voice cracked with guilt as he apologized over and over again, tears shining in his own eyes as Peter whined and tried to back away, eyes wide and breath short with terror as he watched the doctor work. Tony had held his free hand and gently turned Peter’s face away to look at him instead, brushing back his tangled curls and murmuring reassurances to him in a soft voice. 

_“Don’t worry, Bambi_ _. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”_

_“Hey, eyes on me,_ _bud._ _Deep breaths_ _, I’ve got you."_

_“Can you turn a little bit this way for me? That’s it, good boy.”_

He remembers holding his hand and brushing through his hair until they were touching down, Peter whimpering at the sudden drop even with the mild sedative Bruce had given him when the noise and movement of taking off proved to be too overwhelming for him. 

_“Hey, hey, hey—it's okay, shutterbug,”_ He’d said to him, trying his best to wear a smile that didn’t portray just how god damn heart broken he was. _“We’re only landing, mimmo_ _._ _Y_ _ou’re_ _finally_ _home,_ _I promised I’d bring you home, didn’t I?”_

And the glassy look in Peter’s eyes was enough to tear his heart in two, how hopeful and disbelieving his voice was when he whispered back, _“Home?”_

Tony gave him a wane smile, his throat swelling with emotion, eyes heating up and glazing over.

 _“_ _Yeah, baby._ _You’re home.”_

They lifted the stretcher and carted Peter off the jet, the boy softly dozing with exhaustion and Midazolam pulling him under. Tony kept their hands clasped together, and it was becoming unclear which one of them he was trying to console—Peter or himself. 

Medical personnel immediately swarmed the bed where the boy laid, speaking in clipped and processed medical jargon that went straight over Tony’s head, moving back and forth like they stood on hot coals. There were hands all over his boy, pulling at his arms and wiping at weeping wounds, paying no mind to the way Peter screamed, too weak to even turn away from them. 

He remembers the way someone _pried_ his hand away from Peter’s, whisking the stretcher through medbay doors and hallways out of sight, leaving Tony standing bereft and stripped of his only tether to sanity. 

They may as well have taken the heart straight from his chest. 

They took his boy away from him yet again, and Peter had cried out for him just like he had all those days ago, eyes darting around in a frantic search as his now empty hand blindly reached out for Tony's. His voice was hoarse and sore, pleading for the one familiar face he’d seen in weeks until his throat was certainly raw from screaming. 

“Mr. Stark? Where— _Tony_ _?_ _Dad!"_

That’s his boy. That’s his baby and they’re taking him away from him. 

He’s crying and hurting and scared and _dying_ and they’re _taking him away._

He wanted nothing more than to run through the crowd and scoop him up, anything to keep him from sounding so god damn terrified ever again. The sounds escaping him were nothing short of guttural. Everything left in him coming out in sharp cries of pure agony and loss. 

God, he probably wasn’t even coherent enough to understand why Tony had let them take him–did he know that Tony would come back for him? He was sedated and confused with trauma and malnutrition, thinking that Tony had let him be whisked away without fighting for him, seeing the white coats and medical equipment and immediately thinking the worst—rationality much too far gone to realize it was all meant to help him. 

Did he think Tony would just give him up like that? 

The thought alone made him feel ill. 

He wasn’t sure how much more he could take before the helplessness he felt welling up within him destroyed him completely. 

Peter had cried for him, and Tony had cried right back. 

It had taken the combined efforts of both Rhodey and Steve to hold him back as he thrashed and growled, feeling positively shattered as Peter’s whines grew into wails. 

“ _Peter!_ _No, stop—let me see him!_ _He’_ _s_ _scared,_ _he doesn’t understand!_ _Let me go_ _!_ _Peter!"_

He had never heard the boy sound so destroyed, so desperate—and Tony wanted nothing more than to just hold him. 

Having to deny his crying and hurting kid of any form of comfort, letting him believe those doctors were meant to hurt him and not being able to reassure or console him was torture on an entirely new level than anything he’d ever felt before. 

Heated voices floated through the ringing in his ears, each word making sense individually but tangling into a garbled mess whenever he tried to focus any further. 

_“…down, Tones_ _. Peter will be_ _fine;_ _you need to let them work…”_

_“_ _…_ _not working,_ _he's not calming down…”_

_“…I’m sorry about this,_ _Tony…”_

The arms around him held him still, and even as he threw his entire body weight into every move to escape them, it proved fruitless. Firm hands travelled up his arms, reaching for his neck and pressing down on his forehead to still the jarring movements of his head, punctuated with a sharp poke in his skin a few inches down from his ear. 

He screamed until his lungs gave out, crying until his vision went black and his already weak knees buckled underneath him. A sudden wave of artificial exhaustion hit him in an icy hot rush, the edges of his consciousness blurring out into sharp white before black began creeping out from the center of his vision, the oblivion swallowing him whole. 

He fell fast and hard, a twinge of panic and hurt and guilt stabbing him in the chest before the lights went out for good, his body betraying his mind with one last thought of just how much he wished things were different. 

Time dragged on without him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please comment if you enjoy or if you want to request anything for future chapters :) every comment and kudos is greatly appreciated.  
> Updates as soon as possible!  
> -Kaylee :)


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